


The Silence of the Flies

by gypsyweaver



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 1990s, Alternate Universe - After College/University, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Detectives, Established Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Individual Chapters have warnings, Ineffable Bureaucracy (Good Omens), Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Maggot Husbands (Good Omens), Multi, No Beta, Nonbinary Beelzebub, POV Beelzebub (Good Omens), Serial Killer Gabriel, Serial Killer Gabriel (Good Omens), They/Them Pronouns for Beelzebub (Good Omens), We fall like Crowley, serial killer gabe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-23
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:27:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 14
Words: 23,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21538222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gypsyweaver/pseuds/gypsyweaver
Summary: There is a new active serial killer in Baton Rouge. He's targeting the LGBTQ population, and help comes from an unlikely quarter. The Messenger, Gabriel DiAngelo, has a message from Death Row for one of the investigators who helped to put him there.Dr. Beelzebub DeVille, forensic entomologist with LSU, is willing to talk.Updating, but maybe not regularly. Health issues.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Beelzebub/Gabriel (Good Omens), Dagon/Uriel (Good Omens), Hastur/Ligur (Good Omens)
Comments: 117
Kudos: 89
Collections: Good Omens Human AUs





	1. The Burnt Offering

**Author's Note:**

> CW: transphobia, trans hate, misgendering, weaponized misgendering, allusion to cults, murder, brief talk of dismembering, mention of penis amputation
> 
> If I missed anything, give me a heads-up in the comments, beloveds.

Louisiana State University, Baton Rouge, Louisiana -- October 7, 1999 -- 11:45

“You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to, but...”

When someone (particularly someone who functions more or less like a superior) says these words, one can be certain of two things. First, that the task in question is going to be insanely unpleasant. No mortal would willingly choose to do whatever followed the word, “but”.

Second, that there’s no way that this errand or favor is going to be optional.

So, when Dr. Beelzebub DeVille heard those words ooze out of their cellphone, courtesy of the New Orleans Medical Examiner, they were well-aware that whatever words came next would be unpleasant.

“You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to, but the Messenger wants to speak to you.”

“The Messenger?”

“We’re trying to keep it quiet, but we got a body last week.”

“Ok, but the Messenger is on death row in Angola. Not exactly a suspect, is he?”

“Looks like a copycat, or an accomplice that became active.”

“Ok, that’s terrible. But why me? I’m the forensic entomologist. My testimony lasted like fifteen minutes, and it wasn’t exactly damning.”

This was not exactly true.

Dr. DeVille’s testimony lasted closer to an hour, and was able to place the Messenger at the scene of the crime. One of the scenes of one of his crimes. And, delivered in Dr. DeVille’s typical way, with precise words and in their posh Uptown New Orleans accent, it was hard for the defense to cross-examine them.

In the end, Dr. Deville’s testimony _was_ fairly damning, but the Messenger was already guilty in the eyes of the twelve men and women sitting the jury.

“You ever read Silence of the Lambs, Dr. DeVille?” the M.E. asked.

This conversation was just getting worse and worse.

“No, but I saw the movie.”

“Well, Clarice, you’re the only one that Lecter will talk to, and we don’t know why that is. But if we’re going to catch this new guy--look, you probably didn’t give one wet shit about the Messenger’s victims, but this new guy is killing from your community.”

“Excuse me?”

“Robyn Peters,” said the M.E. “The...activist.”

“Fuck.” Dr. DeVille said. The word slipped out before they could stop themselves. “I...I heard that she died. Didn’t know it was this.”

“Look it’s up to you, like I said, but Ms. Peters went missing three days before we found her, and we got reasons to believe that she was alive for most of it.”

“She was tortured.” It wasn’t a question.

“Burned. Branded, specifically.” A rustle of papers. “Some kind of religious sign. She’s still here. You can see her if you want. You might recognize the sign she’s got burned into her, what with your dad and all.” The M.E. paused. “Oh, and he cut off her cock. Thought you should know. We found it up her rectum.”

Dr. DeVille recovered from that nugget as quickly as they could. “What makes you think it was a copycat of the Messenger? Robyn meets precisely zero of the previous victim criteria. Are we sure it’s not the Black Prostitute Killer?”

“N.H.I?”

No Humans Involved. “If you say that again, I’m hanging this phone up and I will never pick up for your number again, do you understand?”

“Calm down, kid,” grumbled the M.E. “It’s a joke, and you need to lighten up. It’s not the Black Prostitute Killer. There was a Bible verse written in blood on the wall where we found her--and I fucking say ‘HER’, and you know that’s a courtesy.”

The more things change, the more they don’t. “Thank you for exercising basic human courtesy,” Dr. DeVille snapped. “What else?”

“Victim was killed by decapitation--single stroke, heavy sword. Oh, and the man himself contacted us. Thinks he might know who it is, but won’t talk to anybody but you, Clarice.”

Dr. DeVille ignored the jab. “Ok. I’m going to venture a guess that the verse was Leviticus.”

“No. Jude. Jude one, chapters seven to eight. Got it all looked up for you, not that YOU need it.” More papers rustling. A book opening. “‘In a similar way, Sodom and Gomorrah and the surrounding towns gave themselves up to sexual immorality and perversion. They serve as an example of those who suffer the punishment of eternal fire. In the very same way, on the strength of their dreams these ungodly people pollute their own bodies, reject authority and heap abuse on celestial beings.’ There you go.”

“Good Lord, that sounds like Brother Zeke’s people. Ok,” Dr. DeVille said. “I’m teaching at two-thirty, but I can come after that.”

“I’ll be here. So will the detective in charge of the case.”

“Which one is that?”

“Angelle,” said the M.E. “Michael Angelle.”

“Oh, wonderful.”

“Yeah, that’s what she said about working with you.”

“So, you can expect me around five or so, depending on traffic.”

“See you then.”

Dr. DeVille said their goodbyes and hung up. They sighed, running an absent hand through their thick black hair. The next phone call was going to be hard. They scrolled through their contacts, found the right number, and listened to the impersonal buzz of the phone click over to a song.

“What is Love?” played into Dr. DeVille’s ear until someone picked up.

“Hullo?” asked a distinctly tousled, Mayfair-London accented voice on the other end of the line.

“Anthony? Are you home?”

“Where else would I be, Beez?”

“Beloved,” they began, their voice on the edge of breaking. “I need to talk to you. In person. With Aziraphale.”

“A’right, Beez. Honey, it’s okay. I’m up. What’s going on?”

“It’s about Robyn. She wasn’t killed by a John. It may be a serial killer. Another one.”

“Oh, fuck. Fuck me. I’m up. Where am I meeting you?”

“Rocco’s or Café Reggae, your choice and my treat.”

“Rocco’s, if I’m bringing Zira,” said Anthony Crowley. “I’ll see you in half an hour. I got to piss and get dressed. Pretty sure Zira’s already awake.”

“See you then,” said Dr. DeVille.

They hung up the phone and stared out their office window. They could smell the ozone and petrichlor that hung heavy in the air. A storm was coming.

It was Louisiana. A storm was always coming.


	2. Revelation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At Rocco's, a meeting of minds. A discussion of friends and fiends, of the past and future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: allusion to cults, murder, brief talk of dismembering, mention of penis amputation
> 
> If I missed anything, give me a heads-up in the comments, beloveds.

Forty-five minutes later, Anthony and Aziraphale Crowley arrived at Rocco’s. Beelzebub had already ordered for all of them and was upstairs. The second floor was empty, as it usually was at this time of day. The floors were white and the café tables were a faded cherry red. The whole place was very clean, practically laboratory clean, and the news played silently and closed-captioned on an ancient television.

It was BBC News, which the proprietors of Rocco’s believed was the only news station worth watching.

Beelzebub was waiting with their food (veal parmesan po’ boy and chips for Aziraphale, Muffaletta and sweet potato fries for Anthony, and catfish po’ boy and onion rings for Beelzebub) in the corner farthest away from the television, under a pendant lamp flanked by hanging planters of fake ivy. Beelzebub’s sunglasses were on their head, and they drummed their fingernails against the Formica nervously.

Aziraphale was in the lead. His blonde curls peeked up over the railing. He saw Beelzebub and waved at them. Aziraphale looked every inch like the research librarian that he was--all tweed and pastel sweater vest and a natty bow tie. He held hands with his husband, who wore a leather jacket over his vintage Queen shirt and didn’t take off his shades inside.

It wasn’t a legal marriage. No such thing as that. Yet. But Crowley’s parents were attorneys, and he knew a few tricks. He and Aziraphale were incorporated. Nearly as good as marriage, in most respects. Better in some.

Crowley pushed Aziraphale’s seat in for him before kissing Beelzebub on the cheek and slouching into his own chair. He picked up a sweet potato fry and ate it, tried his drink.

“Alright,” he said. “We’re here.”

“Robyn was murdered. You both know that. It looks like she may just be the first.”

“You’d said it wasn’t a John.” Crowley said. “You’d said it was a serial killer.”

Beelzebub nodded. “There was a Bible verse on the wall where they found her. Her head was cut off.”

“The Messenger?” Aziraphale asked. “But he’s in prison.”

“Angel, the Messenger only killed clergy,” Crowley said.

“And other pillars of the community. The Messenger killed the absolute scum of the Earth,” Beelzebub said, snatching a sweet potato fry from Crowley’s plate and eating it. “Those men were above the law, and they knew it.”

“Nobody is above the law,” Aziraphale said airily.

“They were,” Beelzebub said. “You have to remember who my father is, Aziraphale. Jimmy DeVille KEEPS these holy fuckers safe.”

“Still, had someone come forward with a credible accusation--“

“Not one more word, Angel,” Crowley growled. “Beelzebub knows their shit about this. They grew up swimming in it.”

“We both did, Crowley,” Beelzebub said. “Aziraphale, you need to listen more and talk less. Anyways, there may be a lead.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. And that lead is an informant. Who wants to talk to me...” Beelzebub trailed off.

Crowley frowned. “Informant wouldn’t happen to be a serial killer rotting in Angola, would he?”

“I think he’s unhappy that someone else is...misrepresenting his message,” Beelzebub said. “But I don’t know for sure. So, I’m heading to NOLA after class, to see the body and to talk to Detective Angelle.”

“Michael? THAT prick?”

“Shut your face.”

“But...” Aziraphale asked, somewhat tremulously. “Why would the Messenger want to talk to YOU? Of all people.”

“I don’t know.”

“You do know,” Crowley said. “You’re a terrible liar.”

Beelzebub looked down at their sandwich, half-gone. “You remember when those assclowns from Mississippi showed up with their sideshow?”

“Yeah.”

“And I organized the jam session?”

“Yeah.”

Beelzebub learned a couple of instruments in their youth. Namely, the bagpipes and the hurdy-gurdy. After their first encounter with the west-Mississippi based Cleansing Fire Fellowship (hate-spewing preachers travelling with their pregnant wives and equally pregnant tween daughters) Beelzebub had tried calling Child Protective Services on them. Because they were not state residents, Louisiana CPS couldn’t do much. So, Beelzebub had gathered a bunch of like-minded musicians, and they’d gotten a permit for the “All-Day Anti-Hate Jam Session”.

For the whole day. Loud enough to drown out a hateful hellfire preacher without the forethought to bring a megaphone.

The piéce de resistance was fifty minutes of “Mummers' Dance”.

Fifty minutes. Not fifteen. With drums, mandolin, and fiddle. And, of course, hurdy-gurdy. Beelzebub had sung it. They had dancers in swirls of colored silk, dancing the circle dance around them and the other musicians. Eventually, the angry crowd around the preachers joined the circle dance, abandoning the men who screamed at them to not join in the “Devil’s Dance”.

“He was already hunting them,” Beelzebub said. “I saw him.”

“Saw him? Doing what?”

“Watching,” Beelzebub said. But they meant, ‘Watching me’.

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah. He was there the night before, when we were practicing on the Parade Grounds,” Beelzebub said, levelly. “Backlit near the flagpoles, but I’m certain it was him. Beyond that, I met him once. It was at an event with the Baptist Student Union, before the storm.”

Before the storm. That was a nice way of putting it. Before the Messenger struck the heads off of twenty people in one night. A night of thunder and lightning.

“What was he like?”

“Intense,” Beelzebub said, choosing the word carefully and deciding that they liked the choice. “Quite intense.”

“Quite as in ‘particularly’ or quite as in ‘rather’?”

“In the American sense, beloved,” Beelzebub said. “He was a very intense young man. He paid attention in a way that was...” Vaguely predatory, Beelzebub thought. But they said, “...encompassing.”

“Did you fancy him?” Aziraphale asked. “You sound like you might have.”

“I didn’t know him long enough for that,” Beelzebub said. “It could have gone that way, had I spoken to him more than once, and seen him more than three times.”

 _Four_ , Beelzebub corrected mentally, but didn’t voice it.

“It’s indeed difficult to catch the attention of the Lord of the Flies,” Crowley said.

There was a bitterness to his words, one that Beelzebub did not think that he intended. Beelzebub shot him a sour look.

As did Aziraphale.

“Look, this meeting is only tangentially related to the Messenger, and what I’m going to be doing with him,” Beelzebub said, finishing their sandwich. “I need you to get in touch with Hastur and Ligur. Nobody walks anywhere alone. Robyn was a soft target--Black, trans, prostitute. But this guy is going to kill again. And he’s going to be bolder.”

“Alright.”

“And you have to let Uriel know, because I think she’d be able to bring together the artsy queers to make a funeral. Dagon’s capable of handling the paperwork. I don’t know that Robyn had an emergency contact, but Dagon would know if there was anybody in her family that would show up. To celebrate her life...or to firebomb us.”

“What verse was it?” Aziraphale asked, suddenly.

“Pardon?” Beelzebub asked.

“The Bible verse that they found with Robyn.”

“Uh, Jude one, verses seven and eight. About Sodom and Gomorrah.”

“Not good...” Aziraphale murmured. “Not good.”

“Yeah, I know,” Beelzebub said. “I’d be less concerned if it was Leviticus.”

“Yes. That would be something more...normal...I guess.” Aziraphale paused. “Well, as normal as could be expected

“Yeah...there’s more,” Beelzebub said. “You spread this around, Anthony. You tell them, because they need to be afraid.”

“Tell them what?”

“He tortured her. I don’t know about rape, but...” Beelzebub paused. “He cut her cock off. They found it in her rectum.”

“Was...she alive?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t ask.”

“Who called you?”

“NOLA M.E.”

“Oh. Was he sober?”

“As sober as he gets.”

“Fuck.”

“Tell them what happened to her,” Beelzebub said, laying their hand over Crowley’s. “They listen to you.”

“They listen to you, too.”

“I’m going to be busy. I’ve got a class to teach, and then...to New Orleans,” Beelzebub said, standing up and picking up their tray.

Crowley stood up and went to Beelzebub. “You don’t have to do this. You know that, don’t you?”

“The Messenger has already said that he won’t talk to anybody else.”

“You don’t have to do this,” Crowley repeated.

Beelzebub took a deep breath. “Find Hastur and Ligur. Tell them. It’s Thursday, and a lot of us go out tonight. They need to know that we’re being hunted. I’ll have more information tomorrow. Don’t look for me at home tonight. I’m probably going to crash at Dad’s.”

“Are you going to Angola tonight?”

“Doubtful,” Beelzebub said. “But I don’t know. It really depends on Michael, I think. And The Messenger, too.”

Crowley took their tray and set it down on the table before he hugged Beelzebub to himself. “Don’t get killed,” he said, kissing them lightly on the forehead.

“Likewise,” Beelzebub said. “Frankly, I’m in less danger in Angola than you are in Spectrum. I assume you’re going out?”

“Yeah, I mean. Yeah.”

“Be careful,” Beelzebub said, grabbing their tray. “Both of you.”

Aziraphale nodded, and Beelzebub took their tray to the trash. They were going to have to walk fast to make it to the Biology Building in time.

The humidity weighed on them like a coat. Part of them wanted the storm to break, but the smarter part hoped that they wouldn’t have to drive to New Orleans in buckets of rain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the odd event that you are unfamiliar: [Mummers' Dance](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qxTpvA-pUG0)
> 
> Also, Rocco's. They've moved, but the menu looks the same. Highly recommend. [Rocco's](https://www.roccosnopoboys.com)


	3. The Angel and the Devil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dr. Beelzebub DeVille thinks about the past on a long, rainy drive to New Orleans.

I-10 Southbound, 4:15 PM

It was drizzling and Beelzebub was piloting their 1973 Beetle down the I-10, towards New Orleans. They’d stopped at the house in Spanish Town to pack an overnight bag, then headed out. Crowley was in class by then--he was working on his third PhD. This one in Emergency Management. Aziraphale was at the library.

Crowley was easy to get along with, easy to live with. Aziraphale was an adjustment, but one that Beelzebub had been willing to make. They had few friends, and the closest friend that they had was Crowley.

On a sweaty night, the second day that they’d known him, there was a moment. Both of them drunk and sugared out of their heads, in heavy drag, giddy with themselves for getting into every bar they went to without cover or an ID check. Teenagers, shoved into the same space by virtue of their parents’ church association, and both beguiled by another young mind capable of keeping up with their own. One boy and one whatsit, drunk on their own power after getting some horny frat boy to buy them the most expensive drink on the menu and ordering it virgin. Making him tip the bartender, too.

And now, back in the house that was Beelzebub’s and soon to be both of theirs, laying in a drunken tangle of limbs on Beelzebub’s bed, a careless hand dragging across Crowley’s scandalously short snakeskin print skirt, Crowley’s hand falling on the swell of Beelzebub’s bust, eliciting a soft moan from Beelzebub.

Nobody had ever been that close, and Beelzebub didn’t want to shove him away. They ran a finger over the sensitive flesh of Crowley’s thighs, hoping for a moan.

They got a snore. He’d fallen asleep. Probably for the best.

Crowley was good. Very good. They could be good for one another.

But, as good as he was, he was not quite right. They’d talked about it, of course. In a very academic and reasonable way. As much as a person can talk about matters of the heart reasonably.

Being together, touching and hugging--it felt good. But not quite right. They agreed on that.

They could be a good couple. A great couple. Similar interests, similar brilliance. A willingness to work together to accomplish mutual goals. A certain ease around each other physically.

Beelzebub was not grossed out by the plaque psoriasis that made a mess out of Crowley twice or so every year. Crowley wasn’t a creepy fetishist who was only interested in Beelzebub because of their unique anatomy.

And, of course, their parents would be _thrilled_.

But it didn’t feel right. Not quite.

Beelzebub thought that, because of the closed-in nature of their families, they might share enough genes that it knocked their chemistry off-kilter. It didn’t feel right.

Crowley thought that their respective upbringings might have made them so neurotic that they were placing a supernatural significance on normal teenaged nervousness.

“Maybe nothing will ever feel right,” he’d said, and the pain in his voice was a palpable thing.

He’d been bold enough to suggest that they might require research for the filthy Star Trek fanfiction that they’d discussed the night before. Intimate research.

That nearly worked, but Beelzebub hesitated.

In the end, they had decided to never go beyond hand-holding and hugs. Nature versus nurture didn’t matter, not really. It felt wrong, and Beelzebub didn’t want something that felt almost right. Nearly perfect. Somehow, less-than.

Crowley met Aziraphale on a wild Wednesday a couple of weeks after moving to Louisiana, after moving in with Beelzebub. It had been the second day of classes. Some crazy man tried to rob the Hill Memorial Library, tried to use Aziraphale as a patsy, slipping a book into his bag and rushing out in the confusion. Turns out that the thief had a gun, but he did not reckon on a crazy Englishman with a pigsticker in his boot. Crowley was the hero of the day, and had gained an admirer.

And that was that.

Aziraphale lost his family’s financial support when Michael Angelle, his cousin, saw that he had a boyfriend and reported back to the family. He moved in with Beelzebub and Crowley shortly thereafter. He was mostly inoffensive.

But the rhythm of the house was off. Aziraphale and Crowley worked very well together. Beelzebub and Crowley worked very well together. Aziraphale and Beelzebub?

Nope.

Nothing to be done about that. Aziraphale had dutifully read every book that Crowley and Beelzebub had recommended for him. But he still had a little too much Jesus for Beelzebub’s taste. Crowley could put up with it, even found it endearing.

But he wasn’t Jimmy DeVille’s kid. Sure, he grew up swimming in it, just like Beelzebub had, but Crowley grew up in England. Not exactly Jesus country.

So, to him, Aziraphale’s naiveté was quaint. Cute, even.

Beelzebub found it to be inconvenient at best, dangerous at worst. And there was the jealousy. Aziraphale hating every inside joke, every gentle kiss on the cheek, every endearment that passed between them and Crowley.

Thankfully, they had not started a relationship with Crowley. That might well have proven deadly.

The closest that they’d ever come to a killer, besides Aziraphale (well, Aziraphale, in theory) was the Messenger. Gabriel DiAngelo...they’d met him when they were eight years old, and their father had insisted on them joining him at one of Reverend Goodson’s Christmas fetes.

It wasn’t much of a fete, to be honest. A Christmas tree dressed in velvet ribbons and shiny plastic baubles. A potluck. A bunch of the most dangerous people alive for a kid like Beelzebub.

Rich, white, Christian boys. The type of boys that kept dark, twisted desires behind picket-fence smiles. Boys that the world denied nothing to.

Jimmy DeVille was not one to coddle the child that he insisted on referring to as his son. He sent them off to the buffet so that he could talk with Goodson and the people that Goodson thought were important.

Beelzebub had learned, from a very young age, that if they stood very still with their eyes down, people didn’t notice them, and would talk around them. That’s what they did, but in a group like this, they were bound to stick out.

They were a queer little boy. Dressed in a three-piece suit, real holly for a boutonniere. Black pants, black jacket, black and red brocade vest, very shiny shoes. They looked like the devil’s son, ready for a Black Midnight Mass at some Satanic Cathedral.

Their hair was at its longest, then. They would be cutting it on the New Year, selling it, and donating the proceeds to whichever charity they liked the best. They grew hair easily, so cutting it and selling it for charity made sense. They didn’t just donate to a wigmaker for kids with cancer. No guarantee that they would need their particular hair type. Long, black, straight, think, and shiny--in a braided rope behind their back.

All in, they looked like a little girl in a suit. It is dangerous to be a little girl, poorly watched, around men like the ones that Goodson invited into his church.

Beelzebub filled up a plate, and hid under the buffet table and surveyed the room.

Gabriel DiAngelo was not the type of person that one did not notice. He’d worn a heather grey sweater over a lavender turtleneck. Soft. He looked like he was trying to look soft. As big as he was, he looked like a mountain dressed in feathers. Beelzebub had thought that he might be an angel, even before learning his name. He was talking to the Reverend’s wife about their various holiday charity drives.

“Five hundred coats and nearly two thousand books for the toy drive! Oh, Gabriel, you are a real MIRACLE, you know that?”

“Thanks,” he’d said, demurring. “It was nothing, really.”

“Oh, but it was something! You should be PROUD of yourself for this!”

“I just had a truck,” he said. “I think anybody would have--“

“Nobody else did,” she said.

Her face was very red, drunk already without a drop of alcohol to be found. Goodson and company were Baptists, so all of the beverages were non-alcoholic.

Beelzebub recognized the look on her face. They knew that she was memorizing those pretty purple eyes for the next time her husband grabbed for her in the dark.

Pretty. Gabriel DiAngelo was the first person that Beelzebub ever thought of as pretty.

“Jimmy! This is one of our freshman, Gabriel,” Reverend Goodson said. His voice sparkled, the way it always did on television. He led Jimmy DeVille by the elbow. “Gabriel, this is Jimmy. He’s a lobbyist. He’s fighting to keep prayer in schools.”

Those violet eyes stared at Jimmy DeVille, the little man with the perfect Van Dyke and the natty suit, and his expression changed. Hardened.

“I know who he is,” he said, his voice was a stone wrapped in velvet. “I think everyone here knows who he is.”

“Thanks for the compliment,” Jimmy said, smiling a little too widely.

It wasn’t a compliment. Beelzebub finished their plate quickly, in case they were going to have to run.

How would an angel deal with the devil’s son? Probably not kindly.

Gabriel didn’t say anything else. The next person to speak was a small, slight woman in a large glittery sweater of spangling snowflakes.

“Mr. DeVille, your policies are making my job a lot more difficult,” she said. “I teach science, and you got that law passed to allow kids to opt out of...well...most of biology with parental consent. Now, I’m getting eighteen-year-olds who fight with me about evolution. I had one kid who stopped class for half-an-hour over whether men and women have the same number of ribs...”

“I believe that our children are our most precious resource,” Jimmy DeVille oozed, with a smile as false as a Barbra Streisand Christmas Special. “If a parent doesn’t want their children exposed to a THEORY, they should have the right to opt out.”

It was part of a larger project, to keep Christian kids stupid, docile, and malleable. Beelzebub understood that. They didn’t think anybody else in that room did.

“Gravity is a theory, too,” Gabriel said, his voice light and chipper. “Want to go step off a bridge, DeVille?”

Beelzebub stopped breathing.

“What did you say to me?” Jimmy asked, his perfect smile faltering.

“I told you to go jump off a bridge,” Gabriel replied. He smiled effervescently. The sun could not smile as warmly as he could. “Kids deserve the truth, and you’re using ‘theory’ colloquially, not in a scientific sense. But we both know that.”

“I think parents deserve a say in their children’s education!” Jimmy replied, with the vitriol that he usually reserved for a pulpit, a studio audience, a rally, wherever he got to speak.

“We are men of action,” Gabriel said, quietly. “Lies do not become us.”

Beelzebub’s body remembered how to breathe again. The angel had quoted The Princess Bride, one of Beelzebub’s favorite books.

“I think you ought to go home, Gabriel,” the Reverend said.

“I thought you’d say that,” Gabriel said. “Well, at least the coats and the books actually went to kids in need. You do that much. But this man is the devil, and you’re in deep with him, aren’t you?”

“Go home, Gabriel,” Goodson said.

Beelzebub crawled out from under the table, holding their hands in front of them, not sure what had summoned them from their hiding place. The angel was leaving, and if he’d held his hand out, Beelzebub knew they would follow.

Gabriel turned to look at them, regarding the breathless child who watched him, mouth open slightly in their awe.

“He’s the devil, isn’t he?” he’d asked Beelzebub, pointing at Jimmy with one thumb.

Beelzebub nodded, imperceptibly to the rest of the assembled, but the angel saw.

And smiled.

“Yeah, I thought so,” he’d said. He looked at the tiny woman in the sparkle sweater. “You don’t need to stay here. They aren’t going to change.”

He’d strode off, smiling a bitter smile.

It would be eight years before Beelzebub saw him again, but he never quite left them. Smiling down the devil and striding off into the cloudless winter night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Barbra Streisand is Jewish. If you haven't read The Princess Bride, you should. It's awesome.


	4. Who is Like God

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dr. DeVille arrives in New Orleans, to a place where enemies and false friends surround them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Misgendering, brief mention of penis amputation, referenced sexual harrassment

NOLA Medical Examiner’s Office, CBD, 5:45 PM

Traffic was awful as Dr. DeVille piloted the Beelzebug through the Central Business District. They dashed inside the Tastee Donuts for a dozen glazed and a dozen chocolate, plus the bear claws that they loved. They were hoping that the traffic would die down.

It didn’t.

They had enough time to eat their bear claws before they made it to the building complex that housed the M.E.’s office.

Finding a parking spot in the CBD was its own special brand of Hell. Of course, they didn’t have a tag for the parking garage. That would make sense.

Eventually, they parked.

Dr. DeVille took a moment, took a breath, and pulled down their visor. They ran a comb through their hair. They redid their braid, put their sunglasses on the top of their head, and rinsed the bear claw slick out of their mouth. Popped some breath mints. Finally, they grabbed their satchel and their giant black golf umbrella. And the donuts, of course.

It was really coming down now.

They walked with purpose, as they always walked, to the squat little cinderblock building. The swing-shift receptionist, Miss Nancy, recognized them.

The resident weirdo. The bug guy.

“He’s in his office,” she said, pointing.

“I brought donuts,” Dr. DeVille said, brightly. “Has Detective Angelle arrived?”

“Yeah, sug. She’s in there.” The receptionist made a face. Detective Angelle always made sure that subordinates and service workers hated her. “I can take those.”

“Thanks.”

Dr. DeVille knocked on the heavy oak door. It was open a hair, and swung in a bit more when they knocked.

The M.E.’s office looked more like a professor’s office than anything else. It was dominated by a large desk that was an old countertop bolted to two short metal filing cabinets. A bookshelf took up the wall behind the desk. The opposite wall had a row of filing cabinets. A window hung between, letting grey light leak in under the bank of fluorescents. In front of the desk, two chairs sat. One waited, empty. The other contained a very prim redhead who looked like she’d rather be anywhere but there.

“Come in, kid,” the M.E. said. He ran his hands idly over the weave of his white polo. “You remember Michael, huh?”

“Yes. I do,” they said. “Aziraphale sends his warmest, Detective.”

Michael Angelle did not get up, hold out a hand, nor did she speak. She looked at Dr. DeVille the way that she always did, like a particularly disgusting bug that might bite and might be venomous. Her red hair was in a tight roll on the top of her head. Not a single hair was out of place. Her manicured fingernails strummed the files in her lap.

“Let’s get on with this,” Detective Angelle said.

“Calm down, ladies,” said the M.E., and Dr. DeVille shot him a withering look.

“’Ladies’? Truly?” they asked. “I can go right back to LSU.”

“Fine by me,” said Detective Angelle. “I’m not crying over Ronald Peters.”

“Her name is ‘Robyn’,” Dr. DeVille said. Their voice was level. Barely. “I am asking for a bare minimum of respect and courtesy. You have a serial killer that I helped put away who wants to talk to me, and someone that I care about is dead--tortured, raped with her own cock, and murdered. Could you try and make this less stressful for me? Please?”

“Look, Angelle, he won’t talk to anyone else. Says he has a lead. So be nice, for once in your fucking life. And, DeVille, I want to go home tonight. So if you want to see Robyn, you see her now,” the M.E. said.

“And I’m staying here until you’re done. Then we’re going to Charity. He’s there.”

“He’s in Charity? Why?” The surprise was evident in their voice.

“He’s sick, Beelzebub. That’s generally why people go to the hospital.”

“He wants to see me tonight?” Dr. DeVille asked, still reeling but hiding it well.

“What? Did you need to change into something fancy?” The M.E. asked. “C’mon kid, let’s get this over with. I’m tired, and I’m hungry.”

“I brought donuts,” Dr. DeVille said brightly.

Detective Angelle coughed into her hand. It sounded suspiciously like “Suck up.”

“Donuts will definitely help. I’m not scrubbed. I’m not going in. It’s you and Tre.”

Jesus Christ, not Tre.

The M.E. had confided Dr. DeVille’s condition to Tre in a fit of less-sobriety. Tre had bald-faced asked them if he could see. Their gentials. For science. After that, every encounter with Tre meant Dr. DeVille calculating how many bribes it would take to keep their various licenses if they should take action against him for his barbs, his weird and unwanted touches.

This day kept getting better.

Dr. DeVille filed complaints, more for a paper trail than anything else. Tre was Joseph Andrew Paulito III, and his daddy was a councilman. He liked playing with dead things, so he got a job in the morgue until Dad required more out of him.

And he’d keep it as long as he wanted it.

Was there ever a decent guy named Tre? Dr. DeVille had never met one. And they had met a great many Tres in their life.

“Fine,” Dr. DeVille said. “I gave the donuts to Miss Nancy.”

“Yay, donuts. I’m going to page Tre for you.” The M.E. picked up the phone and pressed it to his face, typing in the digits very precisely. Dr. DeVille noticed the broken capillaries on his nose. His rheumy eyes, and the sheen of sweat on his bald head.

Sober as he gets.

“Ok, lady and kid,” the M.E. announced as he dropped the handset back on its cradle. “I’m off to carbo-load. Behave your fucking selves. Tre’s on his way.”

“Yes, sir,” Dr. DeVille said.

“See you, Gary,” Detective Angelle said.

The M.E. stood up and left.

“Why haven’t you recused yourself?” Dr. DeVille asked. The question had been lingering in the back of their throat, waiting for an opportunity to spring forth.

“Excuse you?”

“Like I don’t know,” they said, rolling their eyes. “I’m not going to say anything, but you need to recuse. And fast.”

“Not that it’s ANY of your business, but I’m not recusing. He’s a witness, or an informant. Not my unsub. Anyways, I didn’t grow up with him.”

“That doesn’t change your blood.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Detective Angelle hissed. “This isn’t EVEN about him. Gabriel isn’t my guy, so I don’t have to recuse. I didn’t even work on the Messenger case.”

“I’m aware.”

“And you should have recused after he grabbed you in the courtroom, Clarice.”

“Why?” Dr. DeVille asked. “I didn’t know him. He was out of his damned head, which is no reason for ME to step down. Not like he’s my first cousin, Angelle.”

“ _Detective_ Angelle,” she said, examining her nails. “And, like I said, this new guy is my concern. Not Gabriel.”

“You know that you’re putting me in danger.”

“No, I’m not. You’ll understand when you see him. He couldn’t hurt _a fly_ in his condition.”

“Why is he in Charity?”

“Oh, because he’s dying,” she said. She gave her words a moment to sink in. “Were the two of you fucking? I’d really like to know what went wrong there.”

“God, you’re crass,” Dr. DeVille said. “I barely said two words to him when I met him.”

That was true. Gabriel had done most of the talking. The second time that they’d seen him.

“Then why did he grab you in court? And what does he want with you now?”

“To talk, I guess,” Dr. DeVille said.

A tall young man in scrubs, tanned and tattooed, knocked on the door. “S’up?”

“Oh, hello, Tre.”

“Doc,” Tre said. “Detective. Are you both coming down, or is it just you, Beez?”

Dr. DeVille flinched a bit at the casual use of the diminutive. In their desperation, they looked to Detective Angelle for a show of some kind of solidarity.

She smirked at them. “You know, I’ve already seen Mr. Peters, so I think Dr. DeVille can go by himself.”

“Alright, that’s cool. C’mon, Doc. Got a weird one, but I guess you heard?”

“I did hear, Tre. But why don’t you tell me your assessment?”

Dr. DeVille left their umbrella, took their satchel, and followed the chest-puffed man-child, who led them to the elevator that went to the morgue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's learn about Louisiana.
> 
> Everybody in Louisiana is related or knows each other. It is a normal part of conversations with strangers to find out HOW you are related. This often must be established in order to continue a conversation. 
> 
> As an example, In college, I met a few cousins that I didn't know existed. One was pretty close, first cousin, once removed.
> 
> It has, in the past, been very difficult to try criminal cases in Louisiana for this reason.
> 
> Aziraphale and Michael and Gabriel are cousins, ICYMI. Uriel is also related, but it hasn't come up yet.
> 
> About Tre: Tre is a shortening of "the third". Like people will call someone Junior, if he has the same name as his dad. I have never met a nice Tre. I've met many, many Tres. They are a common phenomenon in the Southern US. (My first stepdad didn't go by Tre, but he was a "Third". Dude went after my pregnant mom with nunchucks. I've met others that were worse.) I'm sure that there's a decent one out there, but I've never met one.


	5. Stigmata

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dr. DeVille sees their dear friend for the last time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: corpse, descriptions of wounds, referenced/implied necrophilia, HIV/AIDS, penis amputation mentioned, rape mentioned, attempted sexual assault (albeit a pretty pathetic attempt)
> 
> If I missed anything, let me know, beloveds.

NOLA M.E.'s Office, Same Afternoon

“This guy’s a real sicko,” Tre said, as they walked to the elevator. “I mean, a total monster. The Messenger, he didn’t torture them, just _snick_ \--” Tre drew the index finger of his right hand across his throat. “Just pop off the head, and dead.”

“Yes,” Dr. DeVille confirmed. They reached into their satchel and wrapped their fingers around their keys as Tre pressed the button to call the elevator. “So, the new guy? He took his time?”

“Sure did, Doc,” Tre said as the old freight elevator groaned its doors open. He waved for Dr. DeVille to go first, which they did. “He kept her for three days, Dr. Smith thinks. Got some bugs off of her for you to look at.”

“Excelsior,” they said as the elevator began to sink, very slowly, into one of the few basements in Louisiana.

“What’s that mean?”

“Excellent.”

“Why not just say, ‘excellent’? Like a normal person.”

“Nothing about me is normal, Mr. Paulito.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” he laughed, and smiled a dark smile. A flesh-torn skull tattooed on his forearm wore one nearly identical. “So...you got plans after your date with the Messenger?”

“You heard about that?” Dr. DeVille sputtered.

“Jesus, Bezus,” he said, laughing to himself at his joke, and not noticing the twitch in Dr. DeVille’s face. “I think EVERYBODY’S heard. The M.E. keeps calling you ‘Clarice’. You know, like Silence of the Lambs?”

“Yes, I’m familiar,” Dr. DeVille said flatly.

“But, like, after? You got any plans?”

“Going home,” they said, tightening their fingers around the cold metal of their keys. “Unless they have those bugs ready for me, like you said. Then back to the lab. They’re going to need those results STAT, not ASAP.”

Tre hit the “STOP” button on the elevator. “Hey, look, we’ve been dancing around this for a long time, Doc, but I see the way that you look at me. And it’s mutual.”

Dr. DeVille reached one long, thin finger out and pressed “STOP”. The elevator continued its descent. “I look at you like a colleague, Mr. Paulito. I’m glad to hear that it’s mutual.”

Tre hit the “STOP” button. “You’re so fucking hot, pretending...Baby, you don’t have to pretend. I want to suck your cock, and then I want to fuck your hole.”

Tre pressed a hand to Dr. DeVille’s chest, leaning into them, trying to push them towards the wall of the elevator. Dr. DeVille looked down at the hand on their chest, but they did not budge. They glared at Tre, and then pressed the “STOP” button, and held it.

“You have twenty seconds to take your hand off of me, before the elevator alarm goes off.”

“Shit, it was a joke,” Tre said, taking his hand back. “You shouldn’t be so stuck up. I could really help your career.”

Dr. DeVille let go of the button, not entirely certain that this ancient hulking metal box even had an alarm. They laughed at Tre.

“Mr. Paulito, I am a very wealthy person. I am a professor and an entomologist FOR FUN. I can do anything with my life, or not do anything at all,” Dr. DeVille said. “Let me be perfectly clear--we are colleagues. You can keep your hands to yourself.”

The elevator door opened, and Dr. DeVille stepped out, heading directly to the morgue. They tried the door, and discovered it was unlocked, as it often was.

“Did you leave this door unlocked, Mr. Paulito? Because I’m going have to bring that to the Medical Examiner’s attention.”

Tre flushed and followed Dr. DeVille into the morgue. They flicked the light switch, and the banks of fluorescent lights hummed to life.

Dr. DeVille went to the deep sink to scrub in. They pulled on a lab coat and an apron, then the gloves.

“She’s already out for you,” Tre said, waving in the direction of the body. His voice was bitter, disappointed. A little boy denied a toy. “Dr. Smith wanted you to look at her brand.”

There were three autopsy tables in the center of the room, and only the one nearest the wall was occupied. Robyn’s head had been placed more or less where it belonged. Between two foam rubber blocks, she stared up at the ceiling tiles with brown eyes that were milky with death. Without her makeup and wig, Robyn looked more like an adolescent boy than the thirty-five year old woman she was. She was looked so terribly thin without her contouring hose and fake breasts. Her bones jutted through her flesh.

Violence was written on her skin--in the dark, deep line across her throat, and the dark hole where her cock had been, the bruises around the throat that nearly (but not quite) lined up. The rope marks on her wrists, on her elbows, at her shoulders, around her ankles. The holes in her hands.

“I wasn’t told that she’d been crucified...” Dr. DeVille muttered. “Is this the primary coroner’s report?” they asked Tre, indicating the manila folder that rested on a surgical tray beside the body.

“Yeah.”

They flipped through. Tre decided to play the petulant little boy, so they decided to play the teacher. It would make him happy, and hopefully they could both forget the unpleasantness in the elevator.

Dr. DeVille did enjoy their job, and it paid well enough that they didn’t have to dig into their holdings.

“She was alive when he crucified her,” they began.

“That’s what Dr. Smith thinks. I don’t know why.”

“She wasn’t found on a cross,” Dr. DeVille explained. “He had to pull her down to cut her head off.” They took one of Robyn’s hands in their own. “The holes are ragged. She was torn down, then decapitated. These hand wounds are perimortem.”

The brand was on her chest, above her heart, and Beelzebub recognized it immediately. They remembered learning how to make the symbol at their mother’s side, at the big kitchen table. Carefully making the infinity sign, then drawing the line up, and the two cross beams. Nose an inch from the paper, giant pencil moving as they repeated the sigil over and over again.

“This is Leviathan’s Cross, or Satan’s Cross,” they said. “It’s an ancient alchemical sign, for sulphur.”

“Sulphur?”

“Brimstone,” Dr. DeVille explained. “It represents the fire and brimstone of Hell.” They leaned over Robyn’s chest, nose as close to the brand as it had been to their childish efforts on tracing paper. “She was dead when she was branded,” they said, finally. “The mark is too clear. If she’d been alive, she would have struggled.”

“So...if she was dead already, then he’s saying that she’s in Hell?”

“I think so. Did Dr. Smith say anything about it?”

“The brand? Just that you’d probably recognize it. ‘Cause your dad is so churchy.”

“He was right. I do recognize it.”

They flipped back to the first photo in the file. She’d been found, nude, sitting up in an alley between two dives off of Bourbon Street. Both were hotspots for transwomen who worked the streets. Nobody said that they had seen anything. Dr. DeVille was quite certain that nobody did see anything. The alleyway was gated, but the gate was broken. It was frequently used for turning tricks, usually when the bathrooms were occupied. If anybody saw or heard something, they would have assumed that they knew exactly what was going on and walked away.

Sitting against the wall, with her own head in her lap, staring up at the words scrawled on the white stucco above her neck stump, Robyn looked so fragile.

“JUDE 1:7-8” -- her sentence, written in her own blood, hovered above her.

And now, on the steel table, head not quite straight, slender body broken and abused, elements of the masculine and the feminine in her tortured flesh--here, Dr. DeVille found her resembling an angel.

A broken, ragged angel. A holy thing, a creature of divine wisdom and understanding.

Their eyes went to a splotch of dark skin, not a bruise, but raised, on her inner forearm. Dr. DeVille checked the M.E.’s notes. Dr. Smith hadn’t written anything about that mark, nor its siblings along her ribcage. Just “diffuse bruising.”

“These aren’t bruises,” Dr. DeVille said, flatly. “This is KS. Karposi’s Sarcoma. Kiss of death.”

“What’s that?”

“A sign of HIV,” Dr. DeVille said. “They look like bruises on some Black people, but you can see how the edges are very defined and the whole area is raised.”

“She’s got AIDS?”

“Maybe,” they replied. “She’d been losing weight.”

Tre looked green. “I gotta. I gotta. Doc, I gotta go get a smoke, or something.”

“I know my way out, but don’t leave this door unlocked.”

“Sure. No problem.”

Tre left, double time. He locked the door on his way out, and it clicked shut behind him. Locked from the outside, but not the inside.

Beelzebub sighed, putting Dr. DeVille away and looking down on their friend. Their dear friend. They still held her hand, mindful of the hole in the center. Slowly, they set her hand down, then the file.

“I’m sorry, Robyn,” they said, softly. “I have to know.”

They lifted her legs and parted them. Her anus was dilated, which may have been normal decay, or the fact that her own penis had been crammed up inside her. She’d been cleaned, but something sheened the skin around her anus. Beelzebub lowered their face, inhaled.

Lubricant. They smelled lubricant. And latex.

It could be a sloppy clean-up, following the extraction of Robyn’s penis, but Beelzebub did not think so. They felt that Tre was probably every inch the disgusting little goblin that they’d always assumed he was.

Necrophilia was a fact of life if you worked with the dead. There was always some idiot that got their jollies jerking off in corpses. Tre did give off a certain vibe. He seemed like the kind of guy who thought those “Dead Girls Don’t Argue” stickers were hilarious.

She’d been dead too long to get any kind of revenge on Tre. Well, besides the paralyzing fear he was going to have to live with until he came back negative for HIV.

Lube and latex were not definitive proof, unfortunately. Not enough to dislodge the incredibly annoying Mr. Paulito from his position. They sighed, heavily.

“Don’t worry, Robyn,” they said, straightening her legs and her head, which had been jostled by their movements. “Uriel and Dagon are going to take you home.”

They slipped the gloves off, and flipped through the manila folder again. They needed the labels for which samples they were supposed to take with them. Their lab at their dad’s house was as good as LSU’s. They doubted seriously that they were going to be sleeping tonight, anyways.

They put the correct samples into an old Kleinpeter’s milk crate that had a printed label for the NOLA MORGUE stuck over the Kleinpeter’s logo. They covered Robyn with a sheet, took their crate, turned off the light, and left for the elevator.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wish I made up the milk crate, but I did not. I cannot overestimate how poor nor how corrupt the Louisiana Coroner/Medical Examiner's system was in the 90's. 
> 
> I wish is made up the stuff about necrophilia, but I did not.
> 
> Sorry.
> 
> Oh, and Merry Christmas, if you celebrate!
> 
> Kudos and comments make me smile.


	6. Ezekiel's Warnings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dr. DeVille warns Detective Angelle about Tre and the ineptitude of Dr. Smith. Beelzebub is finally reunited with the man who has slipped in and out of their life since they were a child--the Messenger, Gabriel DiAngelo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: referenced attempted sexual assault

NOLA M.E.'s Office, Same Day

Back upstairs, Detective Angelle was tapping her foot impatiently. “Well?” she snarled when Dr. DeVille opened the door to the office.

“Where’s Dr. Smith?” they asked.

“On a coffee break.”

Dr. DeVille considered her words, took a quick look around Miss Nancy’s area, and did not see any evidence that Dr. Smith was still in the building. They closed the door to Dr. Smith’s office with Detective Angelle and themself inside.

“What are you DOING?” she demanded, standing up.

“Talking to you. Sit down, Detective.”

Detective Angelle gaped at them like a fish, her eyes wide, hands clenched hard around the stack of folders she held. For the first time, Dr. DeVille realized that she was afraid of them.

“Sit,” they said again, with more authority. “We have to talk.”

Detective Angelle did as she was told, and Dr. DeVille was pleased. They did not sit, happy to keep their temporary height advantage.

“First thing, don’t ever be alone with Tre.”

“What?” she sputtered.

“Whatever you think about me as a person, I would not lie to you about something this serious,” Dr. DeVille explained. “He’s never said anything about you, but men like Tre are opportunists. Don’t become an opportunity.”

“Did he...do something to you?”

“He tried. He often tries.”

“Did you...did you say something? To Dr. Smith?”

“I’ve filed complaints. I’m going to file another one. He’s never been so bold...in an elevator, when you were expecting me back. Something you may have missed in school is that the world is not a fair place,” they said. “I can file complaints. All of the complaints. But that’s not going to change the fact that Tre is short for Joseph Andrew Paulito the Third, and that Junior Paulito is still a city councilman--and will remain a city councilman until he dies or retires. So his vile son is allowed to have a job where he can play with corpses. He’s used to getting what he wants, and his tastes run to the twisted.”

“Obviously,” Detective Angelle said, looking Dr. DeVille up and down.

“Oh, and he’s a necrophiliac,” Dr. DeVille returned, as casually as they could. “And no, I can’t prove it, but I will be bringing it up with Dr. Smith, for whatever good that will do.”

“He...fucked...Peters,” she asked, softly.

“I think so,” Dr. DeVille said. “There wasn’t any tearing, but the anus dilates and loosens after death. She smelled like lube and latex down there, so at least he used a condom.”

The grimace on Detective Angelle’s face told Dr. DeVille that she wasn’t going to write their words off. She would not disappear into an elevator with Tre, or spend any time alone with him.

This was good.

“Do you want the rest of my findings?”

“I doubt you saw anything that Dr. Smith hasn’t already told me about,” Detective Angelle said haughtily. “Besides that his assistant has a...thing...for corpses.”

“Have you met Dr. Smith? The man is an alcoholic. And yes, I noticed a few things.”

“Fine. What?”

“The sigil branded on Robyn’s chest is called ‘Leviathan’s Cross’ or ‘Satan’s Cross’. It’s an old alchemical symbol for sulphur. It’s supposed to symbolize the fire and brimstone of Hell. She was branded after death. Did you need to write this down?”

Detective Angelle pulled a pad out of her jacket pocket obediently. Dr. DeVille decided that they liked her a lot better like this. Cowed and suddenly submissive.

They kept a respectful distance, but they were not planning on leaving the space that they occupied, between Detective Angelle and the door.

Did the woman think they would rape her? Probably. Her people believed that bodies like Dr. DeVille’s were an indication of God’s disfavor. That people like Dr. DeVille were demons on Earth.

She was not far off, really. But demons still made their own choices, and Dr. DeVille had tried their level best to be a good person. A kind person.

Still, any advantage with this exceptionally difficult (hateful) detective was welcome.

“Give me that pad. I can draw the sigil for you.”

She handed it over meekly. Dr. DeVille bent over the desk, recreating the sigil perfectly, with care.

“Here,” they said, handing it back. Their proximity, and their very good sense of smell, told them that the detective was one of the thirty percent of women who became aroused when terrified. “Leviathan’s Cross.”

“Th-thanks.” She kept scribbling. “L-E-V-I-A, or O?”

“A.”

“Okay.” She finished the word. “Anything else?”

“Yeah,” they said. “I’m fairly certain that she was HIV positive. I saw a type of cancer on her that you only see in people with very compromised immune systems.”

“Dr. Smith didn’t say anything about that!”

“He’s a drunk, detective,” Dr. Deville said, leaning casually against Dr. Smith’s desk. “Also, he ended up in pathology because he couldn’t stay sober in medical school. What do you call a man who graduates at the bottom of his class for medical school?”

“I don’t know!”

“Doctor,” Dr. DeVille smiled at her. “You call him ‘doctor’. His medical degree is older than you and me put together, so I doubt he’d recognize Karposi’s Sarcoma.”

“Jesus,” she said. “Wait, is Peters contagious?”

“Not likely. She’s been dead too long, but I didn’t tell Tre that, and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t either.” Dr. DeVille rummaged through their satchel and handed Detective Angelle an envelope. “I...thought you might need some good pictures of Robyn. To try and get people to come forward. Even if she is negative, which I doubt, you might want to tell the press that she’s positive and look very carefully at who shows up to be tested.”

“You think our guy might show up?”

“No, I do not,” they said. “Men like the one that killed Robyn believe that they’ve got God on their side and nothing bad can happen to them. But you might find a witness, someone who didn’t know what they were seeing. Robyn didn’t go to those bars. She placed ads in papers, used certain words to let people know what she was really advertising. She tried to stay safe, and she never went to New Orleans for a date. She had enough business in Baton Rouge. I believe that she was down to a few regular Johns. The only way she would have ended up where she was is if one of them introduced her to her killer.”

“Alright, well, yes. I can do that. Anyways, Gabriel says he knows who it is,” Detective Angelle said. “I guess you should ask HIM, and I might not have to do anything at all.”

Dr. DeVille nodded. “How are we doing this?”

“I’m taking you to the hospital, you’re talking to him, then you leave.”

“That’s it?”

“What did you want?”

“You’re not even wiring me up?”

“No wires, he said.”

“And I’m going in alone?”

“Yeah. That’s what he wanted.”

“So what am I supposed to do if he decides to kill me?”

“Die, I guess,” Detective Angelle said, with a cruel smirk. “He’s not in any shape to kill anyone. But you’ll see.”

“I can follow you,” Dr. DeVille said. “I’m not leaving my car here, and I’m not riding in the back of yours.”

“Fine,” Detective Angelle said as she pocketed her pad and picked up her files. “Let’s go.”

Dr. DeVille grabbed their umbrella from where they’d left it, opened the door, and let Detective Angelle lead.

Twenty minutes later, after driving out to Charity Hospital and finding a parking space, they were in an elevator with Detective Angelle, flying up to the jail wing.

The jail wing of Charity Hospital was at the end on a general hospital wing. There wasn’t a cage or bars or any additional security to separate the prisoners from normal patients. There was just a second desk with different nurses and a lone cop outside of each door. Detective Angelle stopped in front of one of the doors.

“Who's this?” the cop asked.

“This is Clarice,” Detective Angelle said. “Dr. DeVille, this is Officer Matt Green. Matt, this is Dr. Beelzebub DeVille.”

“Beelzebub?” the cop asked. “Is that your real name?”

“Yes.”

“Alright, well he’s here,” the cop said.

Dr. DeVille didn’t knock nor ask the cop to unlock the door. Instead, they reached to the plastic bin hanging beside the door and picked the file out of it. The cop and the detective watched as they flipped through it.

“Type one diabetes,” they mumbled. “These sugar counts are insane. He’s got a veinal reading in the four digits...”

“Prison food,” Detective Angelle said with a shrug.

“They’re just...killing him?”

“They’re supposed to, anyways,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Why does it matter if they do it now, or in a few years.”

“It matters,” Dr. DeVille grumbled.

“Are you going, or what?” Detective Angelle asked.

The cop unlocked the door for them.

Dr. DeVille sighed and opened the door. Given the choice between the company of a serial killer and Detective Angelle, they chose the killer.

They closed the door behind themself and heard it relock. That was not comforting. Maybe Detective Angelle actually would let them die, if the Messenger got it in his head to kill them.

The room was dark, except for a yellow light bar over the bed and the lights on the machines that were monitoring the patient in the bed.

Beelzebub approached, slowly. They were eight years old again, at a miserable Christmas party, alone and frightened. They were sixteen, at another event with their father. Alone.

They were, most alarmingly, eighteen years old. In pain, and terrified. Attacked. Incapacitated. The most vulnerable that they’d ever been. And yet.

And yet.

They were in his arms, and safe.

They looked down at the man in the bed. He slept peacefully in the yellow glow of the light bar. He was older than the last time that they’d seen him. Well, prison aged a person in dog years. He laid with his arms across his chest, fingers laced together. No shackles. That either meant that he wasn’t giving them any trouble, or that they thought he was too weak to cause any problems.

More the fools they were, if that was the case.

He’d lost weight, and his flesh seemed to sink into his bones. He wasn’t eating. Well, he wouldn’t. If he knew he was a diabetic, he wouldn’t eat food that was going to get him sick. His hair was longer, brushed away from his face, and he needed a shave.

But he was still Gabriel DiAngelo, the man who stared the devil down and disappeared into the bitter cold Baton Rouge night.

The man who saved their life a decade later.

The yellow light on his face reminded Beelzebub of a summer afternoon when they were nine. They’d been working in their greenhouse, when the light turned gold. Sudden, and magical, the light around them cast everything in a halo. They stared, open-mouthed, at the sudden beauty of everything in the light of a yellow sky.

In retrospect, they thought they should have noticed that their menagerie of rescued wildlife had gone silent, but at the time it was just part of the magic of that moment. They looked up with wonder at a sky nearly the same color as the light bar above the bed.

That’s when they saw the rotation of the clouds. That’s when the first hailstones began to patter the thick glass of their greenhouse.

Lightning flashed, striking the copper fountain in their father’s courtyard and turning Beelzebub’s world white.

They’d yelped and run for the door between their carriage house and the greenhouse.

Beelzebub sighed and turned away from the man in the bed. They looked at the ocean of saltwater that flowed into Gabriel’s arm and touched the bags. Vitamins, minerals, diabetic drip. They flipped to the medications page of Gabriel’s file and read. Their left hand dropped down, to hang by the thumb from their pocket.

Another hand found their wrist, and held it. Beelzebub didn’t move, didn’t shriek like the child they suddenly were again. Instead, they looked down into eyes that seemed so dark under the yellow light.

“You came,” he said, sleep still in his voice. His smile broke like the dawn. The sun couldn’t smile more warmly than he could. “You’re really here.”

“I-I am,” Beelzebub replied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beelzebub was a homeschooler. They're the Doogie Howser of bugs. They got their first PhD at eighteen, because LSU has a residency requirement for PhDs. 
> 
> But they got their first Bachelor's at nine. In this story, they're twenty-three. Very young for the work that they're doing, but there's (STILL! but it was worse in the nineties) a shortage of forensic entomologists, and they are very good at their job.
> 
> Comments and kudos make me smile.


	7. The Devil's Son

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Breathing tales of the past in a hospital room. The Messenger knows who his copycat is, and he is worried for the devil's son.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Light medical squick, referenced assault

Charity Hospital, Room 1013, 9:45 PM

“You came,” he said, sleep still in his voice. His smile broke like the dawn. The sun couldn’t smile more warmly than he could. “You’re really here.”

“I-I am,” Beelzebub replied.

“You’re not a hallucination. I’ve seen you three times today so far, but this is the first time you’ve actually been solid,” he said, and his voice was as gentle as Beelzebub remembered. It was the same voice that read the weather and the news every morning for three years on KLSU radio. “You’re shaking.”

He had not released their wrist. His grip was very strong.

“I’m sorry,” Beelzebub said, with a sigh. “It’s been a long day.”

Gabriel sat up in the bed. He pulled them, like a little child, to the bedside. “Sit with me,” he said.

Beelzebub obeyed. The mattress was still warm from him. Under the warmth, it was thin and hard. He peered into their face. Backlit by the yellow light bar, he looked nearly haloed. An angel, if a bit ragged around the edges.

His fingers slipped from their wrist to their hand. There is an intimacy to a bed, even a sickbed, maybe more to a sickbed. Beelzebub could feel, by their simple proximity, how much of himself Gabriel had lost. The bed should have sunk down more beneath him. They could feel the bones in his hand, hard rocks under very thin flesh, as he clasped their own.

He had not lost much of his strength. This was still a man who could kill, if he got it in his mind to kill.

They were not afraid.

“You’re a good person, to humor a sick man,” he said, softly. “They just...let you in here? Alone? With me?”

“Isn’t that what you asked for?”

“Well, yeah. I’m just surprised that they actually did it." He laughed. “I wouldn’t have. I mean, I’m a serial killer. Not exactly the safest place for a specialist...they aren’t growing entomologists on trees, are they?” He turned up the wattage on his smile, and then he frowned. “Wait...did they lock you in here?”

“I think so,” Beelzebub said.

“That’s absolutely ridiculous.”

“In the end, it was my choice,” Beelzebub said. They unfolded his hand in their own, and began to rub his mound of Venus with both of their thumbs. “Am I in danger here?”

“Not from me.” He closed his eyes and his whole body relaxed in the yellow glow. “That’s nice. Really nice.”

“You’ve lost some weight. I saw it on your chart, but I remember how your hands felt,” they said.

“I’m dying, sunshine,” he said. “I just wanted to see you again before I went.”

“You’re not going to die,” Beelzebub said, their voice quiet, but confident. “There’s more than enough in your medical file to get you another trial. Diabetic dementia. Psychosis. Neither came up at your first trial. And I can find you a better attorney than the public defender’s office.”

“Why?” he asked. “That’s a lot of cash.”

“You saved my life,” they replied, moving their attentions to his thumb, rolling it in the socket, then rubbing some warmth into the calloused flesh. “I owe you. And money I have.”

He paused, either from the pleasure of Beelzebub’s touch or for a moment to consider his next words. Beelzebub moved to the flesh of his wrist, eliciting a soft moan from him.

“You are really good at this...I know I don’t really have any business in your personal life, but,” he began, “are you still with the redhead? The one who took a knife to a gunfight and won?”

“Crowley?”

“Yeah, that was his name.”

Gabriel opened his eyes and smiled. It was a strange expression, and not a happy one.

 _Well, I met this man when I was eight years old. He was impossibly cool, the way he just tore down my dad in front of a bunch of people that thought daddy was important. This legend of a man gave me completely unrealistic expectations for any future human. So, I threw away a perfectly serviceable relationship when one finally showed up and am now living with my dear friend and his boyfriend, who despises me even as he lives on Crowley’s and my largess._ This is what Beelzebub thought.

What Beelzebub said was, “Crowley is with your cousin, Aziraphale. We were never together. I...don’t have...I never had...It’s just me, actually.”

Gabriel blinked. They felt the blood creeping into their cheeks.

“I was kind of hoping that you were with the stab-happy psycho,” Gabriel said. “I thought you were. I saw you...at the jam session.”

“And before,” Beelzebub agreed. “What were you doing there?”

“Watching...Fuck it, I was watching you.” Gabriel smiled, sunlight radiating from him. “You are magic, do you know that?”

Beelzebub felt the first tear trace a hot track down their cheek. “So are you.”

He pulled his hand away from them and wrapped his arms around them. Beelzebub gasped at the sudden movement. But he was gentle with them. The embrace was warm. He smelled of antiseptic soap and industrial laundry detergent. But, underneath the chemical smell, he was warm. And so painfully thin.

“Sunshine, you’re in danger,” he breathed into their ear. “He wants you. The new guy. He killed the green girl, didn’t he?”

Green girl. It took a minute to realize what Gabriel was talking about. For “The Mummer’s Dance”, it had been Robyn’s idea to dress each of the dancers in a different color. She was green.

In their memory, an old man screamed at children to not join in. To resist the devil. And Robyn laughed and spun, the wind catching her raiments. Pulling at the flowers in her hair.

“Robyn,” they said, leaning into his shoulder. “Yeah. He crucified her. Tortured her. Cut her head off.”

“I’m sorry. I couldn’t find him,” Gabriel said, stroking the back of their neck. “I would have killed him for what he did to you.”

“That guy?” Beelzebub pulled away from Gabriel, looking at him with shock. “It’s him? He nearly killed me!”

“Yeah, I think it’s the same guy. His name was Eli,” Gabriel said. “I met him when I was trying to start an actual Christian group--the Caritas group, remember? At first, he was on board. Thought the charity work was great, a real team player. But, I think your dad’s people got to him.”

Beelzebub nodded. “Oh, he was probably one of the guys who really took to dad’s radicalization efforts. He probably attended all of my dad’s seminars for good Christian soldiers. So he’d be very good at moving undetected.” They paused. “It was so long ago. I gave up on any hope of justice years ago...I can check dad’s records for people named ‘Eli’ and related names. Anything else?”

“Not a lot, unfortunately. I don’t even know what Eli is short for,” he said. “After he clubbed you in the head, he disappeared. I couldn’t find him, and I _looked_. I’m pretty sure someone told him that I was after him.”

“My dad couldn’t find him either.”

“He actually cared?” Gabriel asked, bitterly.

“Oh, I was surprised too,” Beelzebub said. “After he was done screaming at me for being an idiot, walking alone at night. He tried to find my attacker. Dad thought that me getting attacked would make him look weak.”

“So he actually looked.”

“Yeah. And he didn’t find anything.”

“I’m scared for you,” he said. “I don’t think Eli ever forgot you.”

“Not if he went after Robyn because she’s my friend.”

“He was pretty rabid about the gays. I honestly thought he would calm down. I thought just being on campus, and maybe meeting an actual gay person might help. Eli said he grew up in a little town, but I don’t remember which one. Maybe Oak Grove? But there’s five Oak Groves in Louisiana.”

“Yeah.”

“He fixated on you. You...were something he couldn’t explain. God made you in a way that he couldn’t comprehend. And then, you had the _audacity_ to live your life without any shame. That really bothered him.” Gabriel’s eyes twinkled, and he spoke about Beelzebub with reverence. It made them smile. “I kicked him out of the Caritas group, when I heard he was hanging out with your dad and the Baptist Student Union crowd. What is your father, anyways?”

“He’s the devil.”

“No, seriously,” Gabriel said. “Who am I going to tell, Beelzebub? I’m delusional. You’ve seen my chart. Nobody would believe me.”

“I don’t know that you’d believe ME.”

“Try me.”

In the golden light, surrounded by the cool dark, in the bed of a dying man, in his arms--Beelzebub began to cry like the child they were never allowed to be. The tears fell onto his shoulder, and he held them. He was so thin now. But he was so warm.

“He’s a priest,” they eventually whimpered into Gabriel’s ear. “Higher than that now. Cardinal would be the analogue. For The Black Council, an international group of Satanists.”

“Satanists?” Gabriel asked. “Like...real ones?”

“I was born onto a black stone altar with a bunch of people in cloaks chanting around my mother,” they confirmed. “On Walpurgisnacht.”

“I was not expecting that,” he said, honestly. “How international?”

“The pope is one of ours,” Beelzebub said. Sitting up and swiping their tears away. “You can always tell, because if the pope is one of ours, then the church becomes a lot more...expansionist. They make exceptions and exemptions and roll back a lot of old rules. All to get more people in the pews.”

“Didn’t think your dad was a Catholic.”

“He’s not,” Beelzebub said. “Since the beginning, they’ve exploited existing churches, and flourished where they could. My father is milking the Evangelicals for everything that they’ve got.”

“What’s that make you? The Antichrist?”

Gabriel was joking. Beelzebub was not.

“They checked. There are many Antichrists. The devil hedges his bets, of course. But I failed every test.” Beelzebub laughed, but it was flat. Humorless. “That made The Black Council think their tests were flawed. No, I just didn’t want to be anybody’s tool. I failed on purpose.”

“Oh. Fuck.”

“Indeed.”

“Are you an Antichrist?”

“No. I’m not a believer,” Beelzebub said. “I’m terrible at being an atheist. But I strive towards it.”

“Terrible at being an atheist?”

“I can’t believe in a god that allows this world to be so...terrible,” they said, choosing their words very carefully. “I can’t believe in the devil, either. I’ve met his followers, and they’re dim, brutal people. But...I can believe in an angel.”

He was fast, but he was gentle. Like in the courthouse, when he grabbed them up as they were leaving the stand, grabbed them up and whispered an apology in their ear while the whole courtroom exploded. Like on Highland Road, when he scooped them off of the pavement and started running, his hand holding their skull together long enough to get help.

His lips fell on theirs, the arm that wasn’t connected to machines wrapped around their back. They tensed, surprised. Their hands pressed against his chest through the thin hospital gown. He tasted of cheap toothpaste, but underneath it, he was warm.

Beelzebub wrapped their arms around his neck, slowly. Gabriel stroked their face as his tongue slipped inside their mouth. Beelzebub felt the blood rushing to their face, to their chest, and lower.

He broke the kiss, but not the embrace. If anything, he held them tighter.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“Don’t be,” Beelzebub replied.

“They’re going to kill me, sunshine,” he said, kissing the top of their head. “I can’t change that.”

“I can,” they replied. “As I said, you have cause for a new trial. Diabetic dementia. Psychosis. Neither of these things made it to your first trial. You’re so sick now that you’re seeing things.”

“I was sane enough when they arrested me.”

“They don’t know that. Your first bloodwork was a week later. I was going through your whole chart,” Beelzebub said. “Your attorney probably just told you to plead guilty and hope for the best. You didn’t. That’s good.”

“I’m tired,” he said, and pulled Beelzebub into his lap. “I’m dying, and I’ve made my peace with that. I just wanted to see you again. As I said.”

Beelzebub leaned up, kissing his stubbled neck. “I haven’t made peace with anything, and I have very good attorneys.”

“Yeah, the devil has the best lawyers,” Gabriel chuckled. “You smell amazing, do you know that?”

Beelzebub flushed, feeling Gabriel’s hand on the back of their neck. They tilted their face up, and he kissed them again.

“You’re very...nice...” Beelzebub said.

They felt the scrape of stubble against their neck. Then lips. He trailed kisses from their ear down to their collar. They sighed.

“This angel can’t protect you,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

“You warned me,” Beelzebub said, taking his hands in theirs. “I’ll do the rest. The stab-happy psycho is my roommate and your cousin is working on his PhD in library science. We’re going to find Eli, and I’ll stay safe.”

“No more walking alone, okay?” he said, but kissed them before they could answer him.

He was still kissing them when they heard the key enter the lock and the tumblers begin to tumble.

Beelzebub barely had enough time to throw themself out of the hospital bed and into the very cheap industrial metal and mesh chair that waited by the table.

Detective Angelle flicked the lights on. She and Officer Green peered into the room. “Are you done here?”

Gabriel smiled at her, “I think so. It’s always nice to see my family, Michael. You should visit more.”

Detective Angelle sniffed her disdain. “Leaving now.”

Beelzebub nodded to Gabriel and picked his file up off of the bedside table. “I’ll be in touch,” they said.

“Yeah,” Gabriel replied. “Stay safe, sunshine.”

“I will,” Beelzebub said, brushing past Michael and into the sterile light of the hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you know your Bible, you know my killer. 
> 
> And we've finally seen present day Gabriel! Yes, NOLA police are reckless enough to risk a specialist like this. (Seriously, y'all. SO MUCH CORRUPTION, and so much short-sightedness.)
> 
> Sorry for the delay in this chapter. Next one is probably going to take some time. I have a bad wisdom tooth. It's coming out on the 15th.
> 
> Happy New Year's everybody! I hope 2020 rocks for you all!
> 
> Comments and kudos make me smile!


	8. In the Land of Beersheba

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Detective Angelle corners Dr. DeVille and demands to know who her unsub is. Dr. DeVille holds their own against a very agitated and unprofessional detective.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Michael being Michael, bugs mentioned, referenced assault (not sexual)

Tenth Floor, Charity Hospital, 10:20 PM

Detective Angelle closed the door, and Officer Green locked it.

“And?” she asked, crossing her arms and leaning against the wall of the sterile hallway.

Dr. DeVille regarded her, putting Beelzebub away so that nobody would see them still glowing from the touch of an angel.

“Here?” they said, looking from Detective Angelle to Officer Green, and back again.

“And where should we go, then?”

“We got a break room,” said Officer Green. “Around the corner. Or I can let you in to the room next door.”

“Room next door, thanks,” Dr. DeVille said.

Detective Angelle nodded, and Officer Green stepped over to unlock the door for them.

“I’m not going to lock you in,” he said, flicking the lights on.

Dr. DeVille stepped into a hospital room, worn but clean, and identical to the one that Gabriel laid in. They resisted the urge to sprawl across the wire and mesh chair, or to sink into the thin, hard mattress of the bed.

Detective Angelle followed.

“Thanks, Matt,” she said as she closed the door behind them. “Well?” she snapped at Dr. DeVille, glaring at them from a barely comfortable distance. "What do you know about my unsub?"

“You’re going to want to take notes, right?” Dr. DeVille crossed their arms and leaned against a wall beside a locked cabinet that probably contained fresh bedclothes, threadbare towels, and paper-thin gowns.

Detective Angelle rolled her eyes and pulled her slim notebook from her jacket pocket. She looked a bit like a freshman that didn’t like her professor, but couldn’t afford to fail the class.

“When I was eighteen, I was attacked on campus,” they began. “It was five years ago. I’m sure you recall.”

“Uh, yeah. So, that’s our guy?”

“Gabriel thinks so,” Beelzebub replied. “He knew my attacker from Caritas. His student organization. Gabriel said his name is Eli.”

Detective Angelle thought about this for a moment. “Do I know this guy?”

“Maybe. You weren’t in Caritas, were you?”

“No,” Detective Angelle said. “But I was on campus then.”

“If your unsub is the same guy that attacked me, he was a regular at Free Speech Alley, so you might've seen him there.”

"I don't remember an Eli from then," she said. “Wait...what do you mean, ‘if he's the same guy’?”

“That’s who Gabriel thinks it is, but...okay, if he managed to avoid your cousin, when he was seriously LOOKING for him, then I have a few doubts.”

This was not true. If Gabriel thought it was Eli, then it was Eli. The Messenger was thorough in everything that he did. Besides that, he seemed to have a preternatural amount of luck. God favored him for a very long time. Maybe God still did. After all, Beelzebub was going to get him out of prison.

But Detective Angelle didn’t need to know all that. If she felt like Dr. DeVille trusted Gabriel too much, then she might not take this tip (or any future tips from Gabriel) seriously.

“My attacker also managed to avoid my dad, who pulled out all the stops looking for the guy. Not to mention the cops, who were dealing with a very brazen attacker and a very high profile victim,” Dr. DeVille said. “A smart man would have put Louisiana in his rearview mirror and never come back.”

“It _was_ pretty hot then,” Detective Angelle mumbled. “Still, it wouldn’t hurt to see what I can find out about this ‘Eli’. It’s not like I have a lot of other leads. What else have you got?”

“He’s white, and probably five to ten years older than me. He was about five-foot-ten tall, and five-foot-ten across, as I recall. Brown hair and eyes. He kept his head shaved, but you could tell that he was already balding.” Beelzebub paused. “Strong as an ox. And smart. As I said, after I was attacked, Gabriel and my dad and State PD couldn’t find him.”

“Wait...how did Gabriel know who attacked you?”

“Gabriel saw him do it, Detective,” Dr. DeVille said. “Eli hit me from behind, a blitz attack, and I went down. I remember someone else shouting...probably Gabriel...then it gets fuzzy.”

“Fuzzy, huh?”

“I had a fractured skull, Detective,” Dr. DeVille replied coolly. “If a Good Samaritan hadn’t carried me to the library and called an ambulance, I probably would have died.”

“And Gabriel was your Good Samaritan””

“Yes, he was. So?”

“Should have probably mentioned that before you got on the stand, Beelzebub.” Michael smirked at them.

Dr. DeVille stepped forward, into Detective Angelle’s personal space, their face right in hers. “I didn’t know it was Gabriel. I didn’t remember.”

Detective Angelle cringed away from them, but only a bit. It was still satisfying to watch her squirm.

They gave her a gentle, pitying smile, which did more damage to her than any cutting comment they might have come up with. They stepped back from her, and continued, “Anyways, he’s not your problem, as you continue to remind me. I thought you wanted information on Eli?”

“Is there anything else?” she asked, crisply.

“Yeah. He came from a small town and was probably a student at LSU when I was attacked in ninety-four. Undergrad, most likely. I doubt he graduated, which should help you limit your suspect pool.” Dr. DeVille sighed. “That’s what I got.”

“Took a long time to get that little.”

“It’s more than you had before,” Dr. DeVille said with a shrug. “I need to make a copy of these files. I’d appreciate any notes you might have on your current case. I am still doing the bug work on this one, unless you want to go with someone else.”

“I...” Detective Angelle paused.

Dr. DeVille was the best, and they both knew it. “We don’t know for certain that it’s the same guy,” they offered. “I can do the preliminary work, if you want. I could hand it off if becomes obvious that Gabriel is right about Eli.”

“What’s in that crate that they gave you?”

“Insects, dead ones,” Dr. DeVille said, with another shrug. “Looked like blowflies--adults, maggots, and eggs. Unfortunately, they froze them all.” They sighed. “The notes on them are incomplete. I don't know how much time passed between collection and freezing. I have a few other tricks, but it would have been better if they would have called me to collect evidence. I guess I should be grateful that Dr. Smith thought to collect anything at all.”

“Can LSU handle it?”

“Yes.”

“Then you’re off this case until I can establish that you’re not going to be one of my victims. You’re going to have to sign that evidence back in.” Detective Angelle visibly startled. “Wait...wait...did the bugs melt?”

“They would thaw, not melt,” Dr. DeVille explained. “And, no. I have an electric cooler in my car. And an extra-capacity battery. The insects are fine. I have chain of evidence. I can bring them out to LSU, which would be a great deal safer than leaving them with Dr. Smith.”

“Alright.”

“I still need copies of this, and I would appreciate a copy of your case notes.”

“You’re not getting my notes,” Detective Angelle said. “What is in that folder?”

“Gabriel’s medical records,” Dr. DeVille said, clutching the files closer to themself.

“What do you need with that?”

“Getting him a new trial,” Dr. DeVille said. “There’s enough in here to get a mistrial, with the right attorneys.”

“He killed over a hundred people--that we know about! What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Plenty,” Dr. DeVille said with a strange, new smile. His smile, which he surely left there with his kisses. The sun could not smile more warmly. “I do as I please with my time and my money, detective. And it pleases me to get a mistrial declared for Gabriel. So that’s what I’m going to do. And you, Michael, can go jump off of a bridge if you don’t like it.”

Beelzebub opened the heavy door and walked, their head held high, past Officer Green and into the sterile white hallway. They marched towards the nurse’s station to get the copies that they needed, not sparing another thought on what Detective Angelle might think.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I intended for an introspective chapter about Beelzebub's past with Gabriel, but Michael got in the way. But she's so delightfully petty and so simultaneously disgusted/terrified by Beelzebub that it was a fun scene to write.


	9. Edge of the Sword

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beelzebub reflects on their complicated past with Michael. Also a few incidents of felony arson and tree-napping with Hastur and Ligur.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: No romance, sorry.
> 
> Also: Please note that the AO3 archive warnings have changed, and major character death is a thing that we're doing now. Not this chapter, and you'll be warned in the notes when it does happen.

Tulane Hospital Parking Garage, 11:00 PM

Beelzebub felt their empty stomach begin to gnaw on their spine as they stepped into the parking garage that Tulane shared with Charity Hospital. They’d had nothing since the bear claws that afternoon, and they were feeling it.

So was Gabriel. They knew he must be starving. Beelzebub also knew that Michael (not Detective Angelle, but the petty, petulant bitch who’d fucked her way through her sorority and then had the gall to sound the alarm on her cousin holding hands with a boy) was following them. They’d have to leave, but they doubted seriously that Michael would be sticking around after they left.

Well, it couldn’t hurt to try to help Gabriel. The only place that was open at this hour with the supplies that Beelzebub required, was unfortunately, home. Chez Dad had a well-stocked kitchen, and they were quiet enough not to wake the house.

Unfortunately, James DeVille was probably still awake. Whatever. Beelzebub could couch it in being the good Satanist. After all, they were going to be getting The Messenger out. Murderer of over a hundred of God’s good Christian soldiers.

Michael’s beat shoes shuffled behind them, scuffing the pavement in spite of her silly attempts at being quiet. Beelzebub turned back to her and gave a merry wave. Michael returned it, beauty queen perfect, with a Barbie smile that she must have applied with a spackle scraper. It was as plastic and fake as she was.

Beelzebub remembered how sweet Michael was when they first met, when Michael thought that they were just an adorably butch lesbian. How she’d followed them around for a while, hovering just outside the larger group of freaks that Beelzebub called friends.

A group of people that Michael always watched like a bunch of weird bugs that might bite her and might be venomous.

She’d turned so vicious so quickly, after things went south between her and Dagon. After that rainy Thursday in the art gallery, when Dagon was helping Uriel set up her very first gallery show. Under a steel grey sky, Uriel confided that Michael was a lot less faithful than Dagon thought. Uriel refused to let her shitbag cousin have something as good as Dagon. She refused to let Michael treat Dagon like an afterthought.

Dagon apparently fucked Uriel there, on a padded bench in the empty gallery, under the skylight, rain pattering the glass.

By Friday, they were opening Uriel’s show together, and Michael was stalking other prey. Uriel served wine at the opening, and Michael partook. She’d made a drunken pass at Beelzebub, complete with over dramatic wall-handslam and her best attempt at sexy looming. Beelzebub had taken her to a quiet bench in an empty corner, and explained to her what they were. Her hands in theirs, gentle words, kindly spoken.

It was the last time that she’d ever let them touch her. She’d been quite physical before then. But that was expected. They were the only Class A fencers at LSU, so they practiced together.

After that Friday, Beelzebub practiced epée (Michael’s first sword, but she fenced foil as well) only once more with Michael. She’d disarmed them, and laid a hard hit on Beelzebub’s wrist.

It could not have been anything but intentional. The next weekend was a very important invitational. Beelzebub brought it to their coach, and that started the troubles that ended in them parting ways with LSU fencing.

The coach turned out to be a Confederate-flag waving racist who assumed that Beelzebub was half-Asian. They were not. Just enough Irish to look it.

They turned back to their car, to really look at the Beelzebug. The car was fairly ostentatious, honestly. It was a Super Beetle, black and chrome, with a red stripe that ran nose to tail. The hood boasted a large sigil of Beelzebub.

Was it wise to drive something like this when one is being actively hunted?

Beelzebub decided that they ought to live their life as they always had. They’d been a fencer since they could hold a sword--exhibitional and real sword fighting, both.

Foil fencing was pattern recognition and prediction. They’d gone to glory with it. Gold medal in foil when they were just twelve years old. Again at sixteen, and twenty. They were expecting to go again next year, barring decapitation by a madman.

There are a few different ways to hold your sword. If you have a weak stance, sword down, you invite attack. It’s a dicey proposition, pretending at weakness when you well know that you’re capable of bringing the giants down.

That’s how Beelzebub fenced. Sword down, inviting the other party to make a move. Responding when an opening became available. Parry, riposte. Parry, riposte. Always gaining the right of way. And they were fast, so very fast.

They took that same stance in how they lived their life. Head up, sword down, welcoming all comers. Inviting attack.

Making themself a target, protecting the weak. Becoming the de facto leader, by virtue of being the one willing to stick their neck out. Willing to stand with a lowered sword and scream at the world.

 _En garde_.

Only once had they failed to parry.

This was the same opponent.

So, was it wise to leave their sword down? To invite attack, as they always had.

 _Let him come_. Beelzebub needed to prove, if only to themself, that this was an enemy that they were capable of destroying.

They would keep their car, the one that they’d restored after their mother destroyed the transmission and left it in a carriage house for a decade or so. The one that they’d modernized. The one that had all the happy memories.

They threw themselves inside and started the car. Beelzebub eased it out of the parking space, and down the ramp, out of the parking garage.

One of the modern conveniences that they’d installed in the Beelzebug was a CD player with a six disc changer. “Candy” by Stegosaurus played as they navigated down Lasalle to Loyola. It was good music for their mood.

The Garden District was a short drive from Charity, a neatly laid out square of squares. Unusual in a city shaped like a crescent, where straight streets and square blocks were a privilege. This area reeked of privilege.

Their dad’s house was not far off of St. Charles. It was a huge neoClassical on a double lot. Their carriage house was gone now. After they’d moved away for college, it was torn down to make room for the huge courtyard that their father used for his parties. Their greenhouse had been disassembled and brought to their home in Baton Rouge.

John Hastur had a pickup truck and didn’t mind testing its advertised towing capacity. He and Ligur (both of whom Beelzebub had known since they were all toddlers) used it to move Beelzebub to the house in Spanish Town. They owed Beelzebub quite a lot at that point.

On April 20th, 1990 (ten days before Beelzebub would turn fourteen), they’d dressed themself in a very skimpy black dress, very high heels, and enough makeup and Aquanet to appear in a Guns ‘N Roses video. In disguise, they’d carried a massive handbag into two large, rowdy parties. One was hosted by an alumnus of Kappa Alpha, the fraternity that prided themselves on their Confederate Balls and their willingness to hang nooses on the cars parked at the Black fraternity. The other house was owned by one of James DeVille’s contacts, a preacher’s son who managed to dodge some allegations of impropriety with his fourteen-year-old stepsister a year or so prior.

At both locations, Beelzebub had smiled their way through the party, mingled a bit, took a drink for stage dressing, and stole everything that they wanted from the stoners who lived there (mostly textbooks and cash). They finished up in the kitchens. There, they covered the stoves in the cooking grease they found in the kitchen, and an unopened five pound package of bacon (from their enormous handbag) each. Both houses had gas stoves, and Beelzebub lit all four burners.

Thankfully, everybody got out quickly. A lanky albino got everybody out of one party. A Black kid with rainbow hair and a distinct Uptown New Orleans accent herded everybody out of the other house.

There was an investigation, and that led to a number of drug arrests. All over Spanish Town, actually.

Shortly after, Beelzebub managed to obtain a corner lot in a very desirable area of the Bohemian district of Baton Rouge. (There was a fire. It was on 4-20. Stoners and bacon, ha ha!) It was already priced fairly low, and Beelzebub managed to talk them down even lower. A few days later, Dean Ligur bought the burnt-out husk down the block. The previous owners were motivated sellers--they had legal bills to pay.

John Hastur's dad was a contractor with a yard full of building supplies, and Dean Ligur had some money from his estranged late mother's life insurance policy. Beelzebub had been emancipated on their fourteenth birthday, and had access to their holdings. The three of them built their houses together.

Among their many building projects, Beelzebub’s great-grandmother’s centurion grapefruit tree had to be moved from New Orleans to Baton Rouge. It was the kind of job that usually required a permit, special flags, and a second vehicle.

Permits are often just suggestions in Louisiana.

Beelzebub rented a backhoe and dug the tree up, strapped it to Hastur’s dad’s work trailer, and moved the whole thing on a cold, clear night in February. They took River Road, where the speed limit was only 45. They’d moved their hives in the same trip. Probably not their smartest move, but it worked out. They’d lost very few bees in the move, and they kept Hastur in grapefruit and honey for his efforts.

That tree was a symbol. Beelzebub knew it, and so did their father. When that tree was gone, so was Beelzebub. They hadn’t spent another night under their father’s roof.

They reached up and clicked the button for the gate. They were still on speaking terms with their father. They’d always been closer to their mother. They called her every Sunday.

So they still had keys to their father’s house, and their gate and their father’s gate were on the same frequency.

The light in their father’s study was on. Fun times.

They parked next to their dad’s Suburban. He’d relented and bought the SUV after he bottomed out the Diablo in a car-eating pothole on Tchoupitoulas Street. He’d sued the city over it, and managed to win.

Beelzebub sighed, gathering the sample cooler and their satchel before leaving the safety of the car.

They slipped in the mudroom door and took off their shoes. They plugged their cooler in, and set it down on the counter beside the old farmhouse sink.

James DeVille opened the mudroom door and flicked on the light. “Jesus Christ, what do you have against lights, anyways?”

“Nice to see you, too, Dad.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ["Candy" by Stegosaurus](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mRwIu4z6J7U), which I heard for the first time on Cliff's Shorts, a CD that I got for free as a college freshman. 
> 
> ["Wicked Game" cover by Ursine Vulpine, featuring Annaca](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7PoIisbJ7HI) \-- This keeps popping up on my playlist when I write this particular fic. Seems appropriate for Ineffable Bureaucracy. You're welcome, if you've never heard this before.
> 
> The coach for LSU's fencing team in the late 90's/early 00's is a real guy--with a house full of real Nazi paraphernalia and is really a neo-Nazi. Everything about Kappa Alpha is also true. 
> 
> Why even bother with a real-world AU if you can't use it to expose/punish real-world garbage people/institutions?
> 
> In about five hours (January 15th, 2020), I'm saying goodbye to my worthless cracked wisdom tooth. So I may not update this for a while. I'll miss you folx. I'm going to try to have an update around the 22nd, but we'll see.
> 
> Update: Tooth extracted. Am resting. It went well.


	10. Where Satan Keeps his Throne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James DeVille is confused to find his only child at his doorstep. Beelzebub has a realization that sheds new light on the Robyn Peters case.
> 
> CW: Bugs, brief mention. Deadnaming. Misgendering.

“Yeah, it’s been a while, hasn’t it? I’d almost think that you’re avoiding me.” James DeVille leaned against the doorframe that separated the mudroom from the kitchen casually. In his black silk pajamas and crimson velvet smoking jacket, he looked a bit like a caricature of the devil in suburbia. His tidy Van Dyke and gold-rimmed glasses completed the look. “Almost a year it’s been, right?”

“Yeah. That dinner after the trial.” Beelzebub wrinkled their nose in distaste. “Kelly Goodson and his wife.”

“Hey, they were grateful to you.”

“I remember.”

“They’ve got a daughter your age, you know.”

“We’ve met,” Beelzebub returned, coolly. “She flunked out of school after her father paid for her abortion. You seriously want to see me with Cocaine Kelly’s daughter? Because that apple fell right next to the tree.”

“Alright, well, I was just making conversation.”

“You’re trying to set me up with some right-wing nut job’s kid.”

“That right-wing nut job’s worth a small fortune. I’m looking out for you.” James DeVille paused. “How are things with Anthony? Is he still slumming it up with his barboy?”

They hated their father for what he said. And they hated the accuracy of that statement. Aziraphale didn’t really contribute much to the household financially, and was more than content to live on Anthony’s money.

“They’re fucking incorporated, Dad,” Beelzebub replied. “What about me makes you think that I’m a homewrecker?”

“They’re still living in your home, though, right?”

“You...want...me to kick out Aleister Crowley’s grandnephew?” they asked, cocking a fist against their hip. “Really, Dad?”

“No, I didn’t say that. I just don’t know why you’re letting his freeloader sponge off of you.”

“Anthony pays for him. I’m not about to start charging them rent,” Beelzebub said. “The Crowleys are fond of their pets. They’re kind of famous for that.”

“Ok. Fine. Whatever.” James DeVille adopted his favorite scowl, the one that the news media never got to see, and directed it at his child. As the years racked up, as Beelzebub grew from a child to whatever they were now, that scowl had stopped being intimidating. Now, James DeVille just looked like a petulant high-schooler with creative facial hair. “What the hell are you doing here, anyways? You don’t exactly just...show up?”

“I’m starving. And I’m in town for work.”

James DeVille leveled a suspicious glare at the sample cooler on the counter. “You brought bugs? Into my house?”

“Calm down. They’re dead. Mishandled, actually.”

“Shocker,” he said, his mustache twitching. “What’s the case?”

“Robyn Peters, it’s just some blowflies...” Beelzebub said. Sudden realization popped like flashbulbs, leaving them bewildered in the afterimage of light. All of the usual walls that they maintained between themself and their father crumbled, and they were suddenly three years old again, holding out a busted knuckle for his inspection. “It’s weird, Dad. I’m not even sure HOW the cops managed to CATCH the adults...and she wasn’t dead long enough for maggots...she sure as fuck wasn’t outside long enough for maggots. But they gave me maggots.” They ran a shaking hand through their hair. Something dark rose up in their thoughts. The deadly gleam of the coldest brown eyes that Beelzebub had ever seen. “I-I’m starving.”

“I’m...not.” James looked pale, but led Beelzebub out of the mudroom and into the kitchen. His satin slippered feet padded over the ceramic tile. Beelzebub walked straight to the refrigerator.

“ _Ou est Maman? Dort-elle?_ ” they asked, sliding easily into French as they often did when they talked about their mother. Trying to lighten the dark mood that suddenly settled over them.

“ _Oui._ ”

“ _Avec qui_?” Beelzebub quirked an eyebrow at their father. Their hand rested on the door of the fridge as they waited for his reply.

“Not that it’s any of your business, smartass, but Babette and Valerie.”

“They didn’t invite you?”

“I got home late.” James shrugged. “Got a shower and back to work in the office. Legislation ain’t writing itself, you know.” He paused. “They called you down from Baton Rouge to collect a sample?”

“Not exactly.” Beelzebub pulled out the plastic tubs of leftovers. “The Messenger wanted to talk to me. Had a lead.”

“Gabriel DiAngelo, huh?” He sat down on a barstool, his blue eyes suddenly dangerously sharp. He pulled his glasses off and polished them with the sleeve of his smoking jacket. “Just wanted a chat? With you?”

James DeVille tried to sound casual, but he failed. He didn’t like Gabriel. The boy who had, so many years ago, made a fool of him.

“What’s that mean? ‘With you?’”

“Look, son, I’d be blind if I didn’t notice that he’s been a little too interested in you for a little too long.”

“What’re you talking about?” Beelzebub busied themself with constructing a plate of food. And filling a couple of plastic Mardi Gras cups with crushed ice and water.

“That stunt in the courtroom? And before that, at the mixer?” James DeVille said. “And when you were what, eight? Are you fucking blind, Remiel?”

Beelzebub flinched. Their father always used their first name, even though they hadn’t used it in years.

“He knows who killed Robyn. And why. It’s a hate crime.” Beelzebub said softly. They put their plate into the microwave.

“Wow. He’s got his finger on the pulse of this case,” James DeVille said, dryly.

“You remember the guy who tried to bash my skull in five years ago?”

“It’s HIM?”

“Yeah. I need you to go through your old files for the BSU. We’re looking for a guy named Eli,” Beelzebub watched their food rotate in the microwave. It was preferable to looking at their father. “Did you actually feed yourself yet?”

“No,” he admitted.

Beelzebub began to fix another plate. “So any Elis, Elijahs, Elliots...maybe Sandy?”

“Sandy?”

“The prophet Elijah was the Archangel Sandalphon, remember?”

“No. Yeesh. I’m surprised that you do.”

“What? Seriously?” Beelzebub put the first plate in front of their father and started the second one in the microwave. “Elijah’s biggest nemesis was Ba’al Zebub. He roasted four hundred and fifty of Ba’al’s priests! You don’t exactly forget that.”

“What you’re saying, is that you’re on this new guy’s list?”

“Gabriel seems to think I’m at the top of it, and always was.”

“We’re on a first-name basis, are we?” James DeVille drawled.

“What’d you want me to call him?” Beelzebub pulled their plate out of the microwave and sat at the stool across the island from their father. They started shoveling food in their face. It was practically too hot to taste, but Beelzebub didn’t care. They wanted out of this place, and soon.

“Jesus, son. You can pick ‘em.” James DeVille speared a cube of potato and gestured with it. “A fucking serial killer. I can’t tell you how to live your life, but for fuck’s sake. Seriously?”

“He was wrongfully convicted.”

“Oh, what? He didn’t do it?”

“No, he did it,” Beelzebub said around a mouthful of jambalaya. “That’s not the problem.”

“What is it then?”

“He’s a juvenile diabetic with dementia. When they arrested him, he was raving about being the Archangel Gabriel. Since then, he’s been diagnosed with a few other conditions.” Beelzebub took a drink of water to clear their throat. “He wasn’t in his right mind. Precisely none of this came up at trial.”

“You’re getting this guy out?”

“Should make for an epic Naming of the Deeds, huh?”

“I know you well enough to know that you’re not doing this for the Black Council,” James DeVille said. “As I said, I know better than to tell you how to live your life. But I will tell you this--as I recall, Remiel didn’t fare too well against Gabriel.”

Beelzebub smiled. A broad, genuine smile. “Well, lucky for me, I haven’t been Remiel in years.”

“Satan’s salty nutsack, you are impossible.”

“I didn’t raise myself.” Beelzebub wiped their face and picked up their plate. “I’m making a plate to go, and then I’m going. _Maman, dis-lui que je l’aime._ ”

“Fine. I’ll check those records and let you know.”

“Do that.”

“Do not make your mother put you in the ground,” James DeVille said. The hard crust around his words seemed a bit more brittle than he might’ve liked, Beelzebub thought. “Drive safe, avoid murderers, and all that.”

“Sure, Dad.”

Beelzebub was rinsing their plate when they heard the whispering retreat of satin slippers, headed (no doubt) to his father’s study. They took James DeVille’s abandoned plate and cup and rinsed them. They smiled at themself, grimly, in the window above the sink.

They’d won. They’d actually scored a point on Dear Old Dad.

Now, they put the dishes in the dishwasher. And now they started pulling the lettuce and vegetables out of the fridge. Eggs, peeled and hard-boiled. Chicken, grilled. Spicy _andouille_. Alligator sausage from the A&P. Three types of grated cheese.

Half an hour later, they were pulling out of the driveway of Chez Dad with a borrowed (Beauregarded, Beelzebub mentally amended) cooler full of a huge chef’s salad, two whole wheat rolls, sliced green apples and homemade peanut butter. Two giveaway sports bottles (one from LSU and the other from Oschner Sports Hospital) full of unsweetened iced tea waited at the bottom.

And the insect cooler rode shotgun, of course.

The air smelled so clean through the open window of the Beelzebug. Apple-crisp and green with petrichlor. The rainstorms had rinsed the city, leaving New Orleans cool and lush and lovely.

Beelzebub fished their phone out of their satchel and dialed Crowley. They put him on speaker, and clipped the phone to their collar so they could drive.

“What is Love?” played on the phone as Beelzebub took a swig of water from another (pilfered) sports bottle to clear their throat.

The thumping techno in the background could not drown out the voice on the line. “Crowley,” he said.

“Beloved,” they replied, brightly.

“Thank fucking God,” he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I surprised myself. My right arm is still pretty useless, but I managed to finish a chapter. Updates will not be regular until I heal fully.
> 
> Alright, [Andouille](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Andouille). I swear to you, it tastes better than it sounds. And it's pretty much sugar-free.
> 
> James' middle name is Satan.
> 
> And we know who our killer is! Yay!


	11. The Jews of Berea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beelzebub and Anthony (and friends) discuss the identity of the killer and what to do next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: mention of mismanagement of diabetes by medical professionals

1:05 AM

“Did something happen?” they asked, their voice dripping with apprehension.

“No, it’s just that it's after one in the morning, and I haven’t heard from you since lunch. There’s a killer on the loose, and last I heard, you were supposed to be consulting with a completely separate killer--who you helped put away,” Anthony took a deep breath and, in their mind’s eye, Beelzebub could see him raking a nervous hand through his hair, shoving it away from his face. “So I’m gonna be a bit jumpy, alright?”

“Alright.”

“You’re okay, right?”

“I’m fine.”

“Are you at your dad’s place?”

“Not anymore.”

“Heading home?”

“Nope. Heading to the Tastee and then back to the hospital.”

“Who’s in the hospital?”

“The Messenger.”

“They’re letting you meet him tonight?” he asked, then almost as an aside. “What d’you need donuts for?”

“I already met with him,” Beelzebub said, crisply. “I’m going back. I need a bribe to get past the cop at his door.”

“Already? And you’re going back? Are you mental?”

“No more than I ever was.” Beelzebub pulled into the Tastee parking lot. “I’m at the Tastee. I have to make an order and then I can tell you who killed Robyn.”

“Hang on, do you want everyone?”

“That might be faster,” Beelzebub replied. “I’ll call you back in fifteen minutes or so.”

“Right then,” Anthony replied, then shouted at their friends, “Come on you lot! Outside! Hastur, get your tongue outta Ligur! C’mon!” Then to Beelzebub he said, “Bye, Beez. I sure as fuck hope you know what you’re doing.”

“Of course, I do,” Beelzebub said. “I’ll call you back.”

They hung up and Beelzebub went into the little restaurant. It smelled as good as it always did. They ordered a sack of Castleburgers, fries, and a dozen donuts, half glazed and half chocolate covered. Another three bearclaws for themself. A bottle of milk for the bearclaws, and a large Coke for the officer--whoever that may be. It was after shift change.

The food was up quickly, as it always was.

They paid cash and dropped their change into the tip jar, some three dollars and some coins. The cashier called a thank you, but Beelzebub was nearly out of the store, carefully balancing two paper sacks of food on a donut box, and two drinks as well.

After they got themselves situated in the car, they dialed Anthony.

The phone didn’t have the chance to switch over to “What is Love?” before Anthony called, “Crowley,” into Beelzebub’s ear.

“Beloved,” Beelzebub replied. They punched the speakerphone button and clipped the phone to their collar.

Beelzebub fancied that they could hear the crunch of the gravel parking lot of Spectrum, the only gay club in Baton Rouge, as they waited nervously for news. It would be Anthony and Aziraphale. And John Hastur and Dean Ligur, certainly. Probably Emily Dagon and her girlfriend, Uriel Angelle. Maybe others? Best to check.

“A’right, Beez. Whatcha got?” Crowley asked. He sounded a bit breathless. Either from his concern or from dancing with his husband. Maybe the booze, or some combination of all three.

“Am I on speaker? And who’s there?” Beelzebub asked.

“Hastur, Ligur, Dagon, Uriel, me and Aziraphale,” Crowley said. “And, uh, yeah. You’re on speaker...now.”

“Hello everyone,” Beelzebub said. “I’ve spoken with Gabriel.”

“I told them that,” Crowley said. ”And that he’s in the hospital? Like, Charity, then?”

“Yes, he’s in Charity.” They paused. “He’s dying, unfortunately.”

“‘Unfortunately...?’” Uriel asked. “Didn’t he kill about a hundred people?”

“He killed a hundred pedophiles and rapists and a few scam artists who--gleefully--convinced little old ladies to send their grocery money to fake charities,” Beelzebub replied. “Scum of the earth. But wealthy white Republican scum. No court could hold those men and their women accountable.”

“But you testified against him...” Dagon said.

“That’s my job, and I did it,” Beelzebub agreed. “Can we move on to the guy that wants to kill all of us, please? Not the dying man in Charity?”

“All of us?” Aziraphale squeaked. “What did we do?”

“You’re gay,” Beelzebub said. “He’s killing queers. Specifically, queers that I’m friends with.”

“What’d you do to him?” Hastur asked.

“He’s crazy,” Beelzebub said. “Look, this man is very dangerous. He nearly killed me five years ago, and he’s going to try again.”

“THAT guy?!” Anthony exclaimed. “Him?”

“Yes. Him. That’s what Gabriel thinks, and after looking at Robyn, I’m inclined to agree.” Beelzebub paused. “She did not die peacefully.”

There was a heavy silence. Everyone in their little group, excepting Aziraphale (who was nervous about hospitals) and Uriel (who wasn’t close to them yet) had spent time in the hospital with Beelzebub as they recovered from a head injury that--had the force or direction been just a bit different--should have killed them.

The attack of a very vocal and very popular queer kid had sent a chill through the nascent Progressive Student Alliance. It effectively ended the tentative allegiances between the queer groups and everybody else. That crime kept the whole campus in fear. Fear kept teachers from sponsoring pro-gay student groups. Fear delayed the launch of the Safe Space program.

Five years’ distance was a calmative. The PSA was going strong, now poised to take over the campus in the next Student Government election. Safe Space was set to launch next year, with over a hundred faculty volunteers.

That could change. This could rip them apart, again.

“His name is Eli,” Beelzebub said. “It is probably short for Elijah. He may be using the name Sandy, or any derivative of Sandalphon.”

"Sandalphon?" Anthony asked.

"If it's a Biblical...thing. And I think that it is," Beelzebub explained. "Elijah made himself the nemesis of Ba'al Zebub--that was in the book of Kings. Oh, and he's one of the Archangels credited with the destruction of Sodom And Gomorrah, depending on which of the Apocrypha you read."

"So anti-gay and anti-you," Anthony replied.

"Seems so."

“Sandalphon?” Uriel asked. “I’m related to a Sandalphon...”

“About five foot ten tall, five foot ten across?” Beelzebub asked. “Brown hair, balding?”

“No, Sandy’s slight and not balding. He’s still in high school, anyways, and he’s tall...I mean, the men in my family are really tall.” Beelzebub could nearly hear Uriel shrug. “Gabriel’s a beast, isn't he?”

“He was,” they corrected. “His current weight is listed at a hundred and forty. He’s lost...so much.”

“Jesus. Are they starving him?”

“He’s starving himself. He’s a type one diabetic, and they’re feeding him typical prison garbage food,” Beelzebub said. “He’s not eating it, which is good. He’s also not responding to the synthetic insulin that they're giving him. Which, I guess, is good? Because he's not eating. If he did respond to the insulin, he'd already be dead.”

“Yeah,” Uriel said. “He’s supposed to be on the non-synthetic stuff. His family couldn't afford it, so he just ate nothing but meat and veg.”

“He's not doing well. The prison infirmary gave him Metformin and...” their voice cracked. “And, well...he’s dying. They’re killing him.”

“Are you...crying?” Anthony asked.

“After I got attacked, some Good Samaritan picked me up off of that pavement and carried me to the library. Made sure I got an ambulance. Guess who?”

“Fuck,” Anthony said.

“I didn’t remember. I remember now.” Beelzebub glided into the parking garage, swiping their tears from their face. “I’m back at the hospital. Aziraphale?”

“Y-yes?” Aziraphale asked, timidly.

“Search every record that you can get into,” Beelzebub instructed. “Eli, Elijah, maybe Elliot. Sandy or some derivative of Sandalphon. First or last name. Definitely a student in 1994, but almost certainly did not graduate. Five-foot-ten, and probably a bit over two hundred pounds, at a guess. Strong as an ox. From a small town, possibly one of the Oak Groves. Bible scholar. Probably a theology or philosophy major, if he was here long enough to declare.” Beelzebub paused. “He was at the Cleansing Fire and Brother Jed rallies in Free Speech Alley. Check their old websites, and you may find a picture of him. Anthony would recognize him.”

“Yeah, I would...” Anthony grumbled. He had not forgotten the boy he'd argued with until he launched Anthony into the crowd, into Beelzebub.

“Oh...okay,” said Aziraphale.

“We need a list. We can start there. Until they catch Eli, nobody walks anywhere alone,” Beelzebub said. They parked the Beelzebug, and cut the engine off.

“And what about you?” Anthony asked.

“Don’t look for me to be home tonight,” Beelzebub replied. “But if I’m not teaching class tomorrow and you haven’t heard from me, start looking.”

“Alright gang, well, Zira and I are off to break in to admissions,” Anthony said.

“We’re off to what?” Aziraphale asked.

“You heard me,” Anthony replied.

“Dagon, do you still have your keys to Himes Hall?” Beelzebub asked. Dagon copied the keys to every office that she’d held a student job in, and she’d been a proctor for the testing center in Himes Hall two summers ago.

Besides the testing center, Himes Hall housed the university’s financial aid office. As usual, Dagon was on the exact same page as Beelzebub.

“Yes,” Dagon said. “I can check financial aid. He’s not from a wealthy family, if he’s from one of the Oak Groves.”

“Good. Hastur and Ligur,” Beelzebub continued, “please inform Sigma Tau Nu and Lambda Lambda Theta in case our friend goes after them.”

“Yeah, boss,” Hastur said, solemnly.

“You want us to inform the rest of the Progressive Student Alliance?” Ligur asked.

“Yes. If you would.”

“I would.”

“As I said, I’m back at the hospital. I’ve got a couple more questions for Gabriel, and I brought him something diabetic friendly,” Beelzebub said.

“Thanks for taking care of my cousin,” Uriel said. “OUR cousin.”

“Our cousin is still a murderer,” Aziraphale said, stiffly.

“C’mon angel, we’ve got work to do,” Anthony said. Then to Beelzebub, he said, “We’re gonna find him, babe. “Don’t you worry.”

“I know you will,” Beelzebub said. They meant it. “Goodnight, Beloved.”

“G’night.”

Beelzebub sat in the sudden silence of the car. They took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and then began to round up the cooler and the bags of fast food.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I had a heart...thing...on the first of February. It wasn't a heart attack. I'm still doing tests to figure out what it is.
> 
> Can't do regular updates, etc. etc.
> 
> Castleburgers are sliders. They used to be called Castleburgers, but there was an influx of non-NOLA natives after Katrina, so Tastee Donuts started calling them sliders because nobody knew what a Castleburger was.
> 
> Spectrum eventually became SPLASH! nightclub. It's next to Spanish Moon, the Goth club. These were the only two choices that were not overrun by frats in 1999.
> 
> Sigma Tau Nu and Lambda Lambda Theta (SATAN and LILITH) are a Satanic fraternity and sorority, respectively. Beelzebub was never a member of either, because they are intersexed and neither would take them. (No, these are not real frats. LSU's Greek culture in the late 90's early 00's is best described as "white, Christian, and rapey".)
> 
> The Progressive Student Alliance is real. It was a group of student organizations that stumped for progressive causes and candidates in LSU's student government.
> 
> Comments and kudos are the wind beneath my wings.


	12. The Feast of the Sacred Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Officer Green remembers Beelzebub. Beelzebub and Gabriel get close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: non-graphic talk about whether medical mismanagement of diabetes is intentional, brief mention of medical mismanagement of diabetes

Tenth Floor, Charity Hospital, 1:35 AM

Dr. DeVille stepped out of the elevator, walking with precision and purpose to the prison ward. There was still only one officer out there, and (surprisingly) that officer was still Matt Green.

“Oh, hello,” Dr. DeVille said, pleasantly.

“Oh, hey. What’s all this?”

“This is for you,” Dr. DeVille replied, setting down the cooler to hand him the donuts, soda, and Castleburgers. “I was planning on asking a favor.”

“You want to see him again, huh?” Officer Green looked into the bag of Castleburgers. “Are you actually an investigator?”

“Sort of,” Dr. DeVille replied. “I’m a lab rat. It’s after shift change. I thought I’d be seeing a stranger.”

“Oh. Hang on.” He whipped a slim black wallet out of his back pocket and showed Dr. DeVille a picture of him and a sweet-faced Irish girl. “This is Liz. We’re getting married, after the baby’s born. I gotta save up for a house.”

“Congratulations,” Dr. DeVille said, and they meant it.

“My buddy, Jerome, he was supposed to be here, but he’s across the street, at Tulane,” he said, pulling a burger out and biting into it. He chewed and swallowed. “His kids were roughhousing and they fell down some stairs. His baby girl has some stitches, but her brother dislocated his elbow. So...” He paused. “So, he’s at Tulane with them, and I’m here making time and a half.”

“Ouch. But good for you, huh?”

“Yeah. Hey, Doc, weren’t you in the Olympics?” he asked. “Fencing, right?”

“Yes, a few times now.”

“When I was twelve...seventh grade...” he said, “I watched. I mean, the whole school did. Our teachers showed it, I mean, pretty much constantly. It was a big deal. You were our age and from here. And man, you were something else!”

“Thanks,” Dr. DeVille demurred. “Wait, were you watching when that drunk Iranian whipped his dick out?”

“Yeah...I mean, they censored it. My teacher was a nun, and she was horrified. She snapped it off...What happened with that?”

“He said I was a girl. I said that I wasn’t. He started pulling his pads off, and then...” Dr. DeVille laughed a nervous little laugh. “And then, there was a penis. He told me to show him mine. So I just sat down.”

“Why did you do that?”

“When you’re fencing and you need a judge, you sit on the mat,” Dr. DeVille said. “Looking back, it probably wasn’t the smartest thing to do when faced with a mostly naked man who had a sword, but...it’s what I was supposed to do. He got banned from the FIE, that’s the international organization that governs fencing. And everybody is going to remember him for that one poor choice.”

“And you went on to win gold,” Officer Green said, happily. “Wow. That’s something else. Look, I’m gonna let you see him, but I’ve got to know--what’s going on with you and The Messenger?”

“He’s got a lot of insight into this new case,” Dr. DeVille said. “And, I realized something about the scene that didn’t make any sense. I wanted to ask him.”

“Okay, but why is Detective Angelle like, ‘This is Clarice,’ about you?”

“We have a past. Detective Angelle and I. She doesn’t like me.”

“Is she your ex or something?”

Dr. DeVille sighed. “No, I don’t have any exes.”

“She sure made it clear that she hates your guts,” Officer Green said, gesturing with a Castleburger in a vague circle. “That’s saying something, cuz as far as I can tell, she hates everyone. But she hates you special.”

“Yes, that’s true,” Dr. DeVille said.

“What’s in the other bag and the cooler? I gotta check, you know?”

“Uh, bearclaws and milk for me,” they said, opening the bag for Officer Green. Then they opened the cooler. “And some diabetic-friendly stuff for Gabriel.”

“Yeah, they’ve pretty much decided to kill him...” Officer Green said.

“How do you feel about that?” Dr. DeVille asked.

“Look, he’s got an appointment with a needle...” Officer Green said. “But...y’know, we’re not supposed to be the ones that do it. Neither are the doctors.”

“I quite agree,” Dr. DeVille said.

“And, I was here when he was brought in. His guards at Angola say he’s really nice.” Officer Green dropped his voice and looked around. “Look, my Nana sent a lot of money to Reverend Goodson over the years, and she didn’t have anything. So I’m not crying cuz he’s gone.”

“So, may I?” they asked.

“Yeah.” Officer Green wiped his hands and pulled the right key from a carabineer on his belt loop. He unlocked the door. “If there’s trouble, holler.”

“Thanks, Officer.” Dr. DeVille made a mental note to write an e-mail to NOLA PD, First Precinct, commending Officer Green’s professionalism, etcetera.

“You’re welcome,” he said, closing the door and relocking it.

Beelzebub’s eyes adjusted quickly to the low light.

Gabriel was sitting up in bed. “Back already?”

Beelzebub nodded. “Without Michael, this time.”

They strode to the bed, and set the cooler and brown paper bag down. The rolling bed tray was across the room, they retrieved it and slid it over Gabriel’s lap. He reached for them, looping an arm around their waist.

Their lips fell on his, an unthinking gesture. An easy one.

His hand on the back of their neck was gentle, as he deepened the kiss. They felt weak and dizzy. He pushed back the tray and guided them down, into his lap.

“I’m supposed to be feeding you,” they said, breaking the kiss.

“You are, I promise,” he said, and kissed them again.

They wrapped their arms around his neck. His arm went to their waist, and the other around their back. His hand snaked up, cupping the back of their neck, as before. His hot mouth fell on theirs. They welcomed his tongue in. Beelzebub felt warm, moaning softly into his mouth. The hand at their waist began to explore--hip, side, underbust.

Beelzebub felt something nudge them underneath. They gasped as they realized what that was, just as he ran a thumb over their left nipple.

“Here?” they asked, because they didn’t know what else to ask.

“Where else are we going to have, Beelzebub?” he replied. He nuzzled their neck, peppering the skin there with kisses. “Just say the word. I’ll stop.”

Beelzebub was panting as his hand slipped from breast to belly. They sighed, relaxing into his touch, surrendering. Allowing him to touch and explore. They leaned back, granting him the space to wander.

He unbuckled their belt, undid their trousers, unzipped them. Gabriel slipped his warm fingers past the waistband of their underwear.

Dr. DeVille, very suddenly, yelped. “Stop!”

“Are you okay?”

“Oh, angel,” they said. They met his eyes, still panting, still breathless. Smiling, but a smile without any joy to it. “I’m fine. But you’re wearing a heart monitor.”

Gabriel laughed, and they laughed with him. The soft laughter of people who didn’t know who was listening.

Beelzebub watched his heart rate descend. Gabriel was an athlete. As a rule, their heart rate was lower than that of mere mortals. But heart monitors tended to be adjusted for that. If it was not adjusted, they could expect company at 140 beats per minute. If it was adjusted? Maybe 120 BPM.

Gabriel was at 110 BPM, and lowering.

Beelzebub retucked their eager flesh, zipped themself back up, and buttoned their trousers. They rebuckled their belt.

“We can continue this...when you’re free,” they said.

“D’you know how to disable this monitor thing?”

“Yes, but the newer models require a key or a code. I have neither.”

“Well, damn.”

“What exactly could we have accomplished in a hospital bed? With you attached to machines?”

“No idea, but I wanted to find out.”

He kissed them again, and Beelzebub felt their cheeks flush with the strange mix of desire and anxiety. Beelzebub knew that they were inexperienced, but they were beginning to suspect that Gabriel was just as new to kissing, touching, and all the rest.

Beelzebub broke the kiss and stood up, willing their blood back into their brain. They pushed the tray back up to Gabriel.

“I do actually need to ask you something about the case, and I would like to feed you.”

“Alright,” he said, leaning forward and crossing his legs under the tray.

Beelzebub flicked the room light on before retrieving the cooler. They sat on the bed, across the tray from Gabriel. His eyes were very purple under the fluorescent lights, and the dark circles beneath them were that much more prominent.

They began to unpack the cooler. “Chef’s salad, homemade ranch dressing--it’s sugar-free. Whole grain rolls, which you should probably eat if they’re still giving you Metformin.”

“I’m palming the pills,” he said. “They don’t watch me very well.”

“Green apples?”

“Yeah. That should be fine.”

“Homemade peanut butter? No sugar?”

“Yeah. I can eat that.”

“Unsweetened ice tea?”

“Thanks,” Gabriel dug into the salad. “This is delicious.”

“You’re starving,” Beelzebub replied, pulling a bearclaw out of their paper bag. It proved to be stone cold, gummy from the moisture in the bag, and frankly delicious. They followed it with a swallow of milk. “I’m going to get you an attorney tomorrow morning. This should keep you until then.”

“You’re a miracle. You really are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so they ALMOST did it. In an earlier draft, they did. I was wracking my brain for a reason why they wouldn't (besides Officer Green or a convenient doctor--CHEAP! NO!) It's in their characters to rationalize hospital sex, and I liked the scene, but it felt like it was happening way too soon. 
> 
> I remembered that Gabriel was wearing a heart monitor. Victory?
> 
> Tulane Hospital, which is a Very Good Hospital, is located across the street from where Charity used to be before Hurricane Katrina shut it down. NOLA PD have a strong union and good benefits, or did. They tended to be treated at Tulane. 
> 
> I wanted Officer Green to still be at work because I didn't feel like introducing another character.
> 
> Iran is a pretty cool place. Very modern and suburban. A dude exposing himself to a twelve year old because sexism would be like having a teammate suddenly reveal that they were secretly a hardcore Klansman. 
> 
> Yes, if you are unhappy with a call or if you NEED AN ADULT in fencing, you sit on the mat.
> 
> I think that's it, but if there was something that was unclear, hit me up in the comments. I'm posting the second part of this scene in the next few minutes.
> 
> Comments and kudos are the gentle moonlight rains that fall on my night-bloomed jasmine!


	13. The Solemn Feast of the Messenger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beelzebub and Gabriel eat and discuss the case. Also, Gabriel worries that he might be a hypocrite (at best) and/or a pedophile (at worst).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Bugs, some description of Robyn's assault and murder, necrophilia mention, assault mention, mention of Tre

Gabriel's Room, Tenth Floor, Charity Hospital

“You’re a miracle. You really are.”

“I raided my dad’s kitchen,” they said, with a shrug.

“How is Satan doing these days?”

“Worried about me.”

“You told him about Eli?”

“Yeah, and he guessed about you.”

“What did he guess?”

“About us, I guess," Beelzebub shrugged. The idea that there could even be an "us" made them nearly shiver. "Dad thought you were too interested in me. When I was younger.”

“He’s right,” Gabriel licked a dollop of ranch dressing off of his thumb. “I have one regret in my life. Just one. I was ten steps out of the Baptist Student Union when I realized that I should have taken you with me. You were what? Eight?”

“Yeah. I was eight.” Beelzebub’s shoulders sank. “I would have gone, too.”

“We are both profoundly fucked up people, then,” he said. “I told myself I was concerned, that I just had a bad feeling, that there was something wrong with your dad, your family. That was bullshit, and I knew it. I couldn’t get you out of my head. This brave little kid, standing up to a tyrant. This scared little kid, hiding under a table because they knew--that fucking young--they knew that they were in a room full of predators. And that begged the question--what did that make me?”

“You? You were my hero that night.” _I would’ve followed you anywhere_ , they thought.

“So, I what? Raise you myself, Stockholm you into liking me? Loving me? And then what, just wait until I decided you were old enough?” He stabbed a chunk of cheddar with his fork with more force than was entirely necessary. “I killed people for that kind of thinking, sunshine.”

“You didn’t, though. That matters.”

“I sure as fuck thought about it. After I saw you again. You were what? Sixteen? I’ve killed people for that, too.”

“Again, you didn’t do anything to me,” Beelzebub said. “You didn’t touch me until a few hours ago, and I’m nine years past legal at this point.”

“Wait, nine? I thought you were twenty-three. How’s that math work?”

“I was emancipated at fourteen,” Beelzebub said. “I was legal when I saw you at sixteen, and had been for two years. If you’d given me the slightest inkling that you were interested in me, I would have followed you anywhere.”

“Legal doesn’t make it right,” Gabriel murmured. “I’m still not sure it’s right. I’m just too weak anymore. Or I’ve just got nothing left to lose.”

“Don’t say that,” they said. “People who say things like that get careless. I promise you, everybody has something to lose.”

“All I’ve got left to lose is you, sunshine.”

“That heart monitor would have lost me my visitation privileges.”

“Noted.”

“Kisses are fine. But everything else is going to have to wait.”

“Your lawyers are that good, huh?” he asked. His tone was disbelieving.

“Yeah, they are,” Beelzebub said. “But, if they fail, there are some extra-judiciary routes to consider...”

“Like?”

“Let’s try the lawyers first, okay?” They pulled their second bearclaw from the sack and took a pointed bite from it.

“Okay.” Gabriel wiped his face on a napkin. “Didn’t you have a question about the case?”

“Yeah,” Beelzebub said. “Do you think that Eli would be capable of obtaining or raising flies?”

“Flies?”

“Blowflies.”

“I guess? Why?”

Beelzebub sighed. “I’ve received bugs from Robyn. I didn’t collect them. NOLA PD collected them, or the Coroner’s office. Different specimens, with different collectors. The problem is, I’ve got maggots.”

“Maggots?”

“She wasn’t dead long enough for maggots,” Beelzebub said. “Taken on Wednesday night, the twenty-ninth of September. September...twenty-ninth?! Oh...oh no...”

“What?”

“Michaelmas! The Feast of the Holy Archangels!” They took another swallow of milk, mostly to wet their very dry mouth. “He’s doing this for you!”

“I know...”

“You do?”

“Yeah.” Gabriel’s shoulders drooped. “Eli didn’t like me taking up for you. All of you, in general. But especially YOU. He hated you. Hates you. Thought I wasn’t living up to my name.”

“You’re not, and I’m glad,” Beelzebub said, their voice steely in their conviction. “You don’t kill little children. The Archangel did.”

“Alright, but back to the bugs. What’s going on with the bugs?”

“She wasn’t out long enough for maggots. Blowflies lay eggs pretty much at death--if you’re outside and it’s warm and it’s daytime, right?”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“Do that,” they continued, working steadily through their last bearclaw. “Because of where she was found, we know for certain that she wasn’t dumped until the evening that she was found. The bars on either side dumped trash in that alley earlier in the evening. So she was dumped after. It was cold that night. Not blowfly weather.”

“You think he...put flies on her?” The realization lit Gabriel’s face. “Oh fuck.”

“A nod to the Book of Malachi, possibly. Or just something special for me. Dung and flies for Beelzebub,” they said. “She was clean when I examined her, but I’ve got the preliminary findings. Not that I expect they would notice dung. The alley stank, and she was covered in blood.”

“He was..sick. Yeah, he could have done that.”

“But there’s no way of knowing where they might have come from until I get them back to the lab.” Beelzebub finished their bearclaw. “The collection labels didn’t even say if they were collected alive before they were frozen...not that I can really picture Dr. Smith chasing flies.”

“Not successfully,” Gabriel said, with a soft chuckle.

“At the lab, I can macerate them, find out what they ate...” Beelzebub sighed. “Or, I can have someone else do it. I’m off the case.”

“Michael?” he guessed.

“Yeah. But she’s right. This one time.”

Gabriel looked incredulous, pulling his apple slices from their bag and opening the little plastic jar of peanut butter.

“I can find out if the flies are...wild or domestic. Pet shops sell them to feed reptiles,” they said, brightly. “I can ask Dagon. Her parents run an exotic pet shop out here. We might get lucky.”

“Do you have any other leads?”

“Robyn was branded, after death. It’s Leviathan’s Cross.”

_Rain pattering the windowpane. Six years old, nose inches away from the paper. The smell of unbleached newsprint. Of graphite and pine wood._ Beelzebub’s memory ran deep and strong.

“Sulfur...” Gabriel muttered. “It’s Eli, then.”

“Sandalphon...” Beelzebub said. “He was a bit of an alchemist, wasn’t he?”

“He was. And an Archangel, so he’d be honored on Michaelmas, as well. Depending on the church.”

“He’s our guy, then,” Beelzebub said, knocking back the last pearly drops of their milk. “Well, your cousin and my stab-happy psycho are going through records right now. Hopefully, they’ll find something.”

“What about you?”

“I’m here until Officer Green kicks me out,” they said. “After that, I’m heading back to LSU. I’ve got a morning class. Before that, I’ve got some lawyers to contact, a nice e-mail to write to Officer Green’s supervisors, and a complaint to file against a particularly disgusting diener that keeps putting his hands on me.”

“First question. What’s a diener?”

“Oh, sorry. It’s an archaic term for a morgue assistant.”

“Second question. Has this guy got a name?”

“Of course he does. How would I file a complaint if he didn’t?”

“What’s his name?”

“Tre.”

“That’s not a real name,” Gabriel protested.

“You can’t do anything with a name.”

“Then why are you afraid to give me one?”

“Alright, fine. Tre is short for Joseph Andrew Paulito the Third,” they said, bristling at the name and the memory of the terrible scene in the service elevator. “Dr. Smith told him about my anatomy, and he’s been vile to me ever since. Today...or yesterday at this point...Mr. Paulito tried to corner me in the morgue elevator. Oh, and he’s likely a necrophile. Robyn showed signs of being violated, post-mortem and post-collection. So that’s an entirely separate complaint.”

Beelzebub suddenly felt very, very tired. They watched as Gabriel pushed the tray from between them, letting it roll to the center of the room. He opened his arms to them.

“Alright,” they said.

Beelzebub rose, picked up the trash off the tray, stuffing it inside the brown paper bag that their bearclaws came in. The plasticware went back into the cooler, along with the bottle of iced tea that Gabriel had emptied. They walked to the trash can, threw the trash away, flicked the overhead light off, and went to him.

Settling in his lap, feeling his arms around them, his lips falling on their forehead--it felt like going home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Stockholm Syndrome](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stockholm_syndrome)
> 
> Gabriel's not a pedophile. He doesn't have an "age of attraction". He's prone to fixation and obsession. 
> 
> Not healthy, but not pedophilia.
> 
> Let me know if any of the science or theology was hard to digest. I'm really concerned about the theology, because it's hard to write conversations between experts. They know a lot, and they don't have to explain very much to each other. A natural line of thought for an expert is not a natural line of thought for someone who is new to a field.
> 
> My heart is still beating. They're putting me on a treadmill on Monday. Woo.
> 
> My arm is still tingly, but I'm supposed to be doing stuff with it. My pointer finger is quite numb.
> 
> Homemade Ranch:
> 
> 4 TBSP vinegar (I use pickle juice)  
> 2 TBSP dried parsley  
> 1 tsp dried dill  
> 1 tsp onion powder  
> 1 tsp garlic powder  
> 3 C sour cream (or mayo)
> 
> Mix all ingredients thoroughly. Refrigerate. Use in a week or two.
> 
> Comments and kudos make me write more. Like lots.


	14. For the Dawn is Breaking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Journeys begin, it seems, with lovers parting. Beelzebub spends a night in Gabriel's hospital room, and starts thinking of a future beyond the reach of Eli.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Bathroom break, discussion of intentionally raising blood glucose to dangerous levels
> 
> If I missed anything, let me know in the comments.

Charity Hospital, Room 1013, 6:25 AM

“Hold me close and hold me fast--this magic spell you cast--this is _la vie en rose_.”

Beelzebub didn’t remember falling asleep, though they must have, and now, as the first silver crust of morning lit the window of the hospital room, Gabriel was singing them awake. Very softly, his voice deep and lovely, singing _La Vie en Rose_.

They buried their face in his shoulder, curled into him. Inhaling the cheap soap and laundry detergent that hovered over his scent. Pulling their knees in and wondering how his legs hadn’t fallen asleep underneath them. Beelzebub did not want to leave, but knew that the time for their parting was coming. And soon.

“When you kiss me, heaven sighs, and though I close my eyes, I see _la vie en rose_...” He leaned down and kissed the top of their head.

In response, they hugged him closer. They tipped their face up, and kissed his jaw. He took the invitation and found their lips. Waking up with him was nice. Safe. The sleep that they’d gotten, a few precious hours, felt more refreshing than they had any right to be.

But they were leaving, and they had no way of knowing when they’d have more time with him.

“Not that I’m not grateful,” Beelzebub said as they broke the kiss. “But...did you just...stay awake? This whole time?”

“I may have drifted off,” he said, “but not for long. I’ve slept enough. You, on the other hand...when was the last time that you slept?”

“A better question would be when I last slept well,” they said. “The answer to that is discouraging. How long was I asleep?”

“Couple of hours,” Gabriel responded. “It’s going to be shift change in about thirty minutes. That would be the only time I see a nurse, so...”

“Mm,” Beelzebub said, noncommittally. They flicked an eye over the empty IV bags, and realized that the alarms on the drips had been disabled. Possibly, they disabled the heart monitor alarm as well, but Beelzebub was glad they had not chanced it. “They seriously only come in here for shift change?”

“Well...ah...they DO know why I’m here, Beelzebub.”

“Guess so,” they said. “You’re not particularly popular, then?”

“Not really.”

The empty IV bags reminded Beelzebub, “You must be in desperate need of a piss.”

“Somewhat desperate,” he replied, dryly. “Worse now that you reminded me.”

They shifted their weight to stand, to release him, but Gabriel pulled them back into his lap. His hand cupped their face, and the pad of his thumb ran over the apple of one cheek.

The gesture was so sweet and so earnest. How could a touch like that, a gentle brush of skin, cause the heat that spread down their neck to their chest? They closed their eyes, whimpering as he caught their lips again.

They gasped at the brush of his lips, and his kiss stole their breath from them. Beelzebub’s arms settled around Gabriel’s neck, and his arms went to the small of their back.

They fit together like this. Just the two of them, away from everyone else, in the yellow light of the light bar and the silver light of morning. The right company could make a Heaven out of Hell. Or a holy temple out of a stale hospital room.

When Gabriel broke the kiss, he was smiling. He seemed closer to his old self in that smile.

“I’m getting up now,” Beelzebub said. “I’m not going to be the reason you piss yourself.”

“Yeah...that’s going to be a problem. Very soon.”

Beelzebub found their shoes by the bed and shoved their feet inside. They rose cautiously, allowing their drowsy blood to move down to their toes as they walked to the cheap metal chair.

Gabriel, whose blood was (obviously) not drowsy in the slightest, nearly sprinted from the bed, grabbed his IV pole and dashed to the bathroom. Closing the door was moot, as the IV cord made it impossible. Therefore, Beelzebub heard the muffled splash of urine in the toilet, and was quietly pleased that Gabriel sat down to pee.

Guys that tall had to worry about splashback, even if they had solid aim. Sitting down went a long way towards domestic harmony.

Domestic harmony. They were imagining a future where this was every morning. Waking up with him. The basics of living together. Compatibility. Cooperation.

Beelzebub drew their feet up in their chair. This was as big as the sky, and it left them feeling like a dandelion seed in an updraft. Spinning and dizzy. Lifting. Detaching from the earth.

They heard him washing his hands, the whip of two paper towels from the dispenser. Gabriel pulled his IV behind him as he returned to the bed, like a little boy with a puppy on a leash. He sat on the edge of the bed, and Beelzebub unfolded themself.

“Bathroom?” Gabriel asked.

Beelzebub nodded, and stepped away. They went quickly and returned as fast as they could. They settled down beside Gabriel on the thin mattress. Their hand found his in the low light.

“Journeys begin with lovers parting, I suppose,” Beelzebub said, softly.

“Is that what we are?” His tone was playful.

They leaned into him, not quite ready to answer the question. He wrapped an arm around their back. They turned to him, their arms finding their places around him. They pressed their face into his chest, ignoring the leads that pressed into their forehead and nose.

“I can’t believe I slept away my only chance to see you,” they said, finally.

“I’m not complaining. It was nice to hold you.”

Their time was drawing near. “Keep the muffins. If it looks like they’re going to send you back to Angola, those muffins might spike your sugar enough to make them change their minds.”

“I don’t think I’m getting out of here, Beelzebub.”

His voice was tight. He was trying not to cry.

“I have to get back to Baton Rouge. Then I will be obtaining the services of the finest lawyers that I can.” They reached up, holding his face in their hands. “You will walk out of this hospital a free man. I swear that you will. In the meantime, they can at least make sure that you are fed.”

They kissed him, a gentle brush of lips. Sweet in its brevity.

“Lovers...” Gabriel said, softly. He was still so close that his breath fell on their lips.

“Yes,” Beelzebub replied. “Yes, my love.”

Their mouths met in the sterile silence of the hospital room. Beelzebub felt his hair brush their cheek, and his tears as well. His stubbled face was rough under their fingers as they stroked him. As he pulled them closer, deepening the kiss, and lacing his fingers into their hair.

The key in the lock broke them apart, sent Beelzebub flying into the metal chair and Gabriel diving under the covers of the bed.

Officer Green opened the door. “Oh. Hi.”

He looked sheepish. Beelzebub kept their expression neutral.

“Uh. The nurse woke me up...” he said. “Sorry about that. Were you trying to get out?”

“I’m fine,” Beelzebub said, crisply. They stood up, straightening their clothes, which didn’t need straightening. "We just finished our conversation.”

“I’m fine, too, thanks for asking,” Gabriel said, with a wide smile. “I didn’t mind the company.”

“Okay, okay. But I really need you to just...go?” Officer Green said to Beelzebub. “Nobody knows you’re here, and I’d like to keep it that way, okay?”

“Alright, then,” Beelzebub said, gathering the cooler and the empty sports bottles. “Good day, then, to both of you. Thanks for the insight in the case, Mr. DiAngelo.”

“No problem at all, Dr. DeVille,” Gabriel replied, his tone smooth and cheerful. “Come back and see me again if you need anything else.”

“I’ll do that.” Beelzebub faded away. Dr. DeVille stepped out of the hospital room and into the harsh light of the hallway.

“Are you mad at me?” Officer Green asked as he locked the door.

“Not at all. You’re exhausted, and I do not fit the Messenger’s victim profile. I was never in danger,” said Dr. DeVille. “I have to get on the road. I’ve got a ten-thirty class. It was nice seeing you again.”

“Nice seeing you, too, Doc.”

Dr. DeVille headed to the elevator, then to the parking garage. They threw their cooler into the backseat of the Beelzebug. Then themself, clicked the seatbelt, and drove away.

They switched from the CD player to the radio, hoping for the forecast. The fog that clung to everything was going to lift around the time that Beelzebub needed to be in class. After that, the forecast was cool and sunny.

Beelzebub smiled as they merged onto the I-10 West, driving into a future that looked bright, in spite of the current foggy conditions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [_La Vie en Rose_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8IJzYAda1wA) \-- The Louis Armstrong version
> 
> Tall people, please sit down to pee. Never underestimate how sexy consideration is.
> 
> I got some good news. My cardiologist said that I'm fine. My heart did do a thing, but we don't know why. Basically, my heart experienced an incredibly painful hiccup. But I'm mostly okay. Yay for being mostly okay?
> 
> Comments and kudos are love!

**Author's Note:**

> So I wrote something for the Serial Killer Gabriel AU. 
> 
> When I was in college, there were five or six active serial killers in Baton Rouge, and I fit the victim profile for two or three of them. 
> 
> It was a weird time. Lots of people driving around in white pick-up trucks with bumper stickers that said, "Not the Serial Killer". Wild.
> 
> I figured that was a good place and time to put The Messenger.
> 
> Tell me if you want more.


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